


beloved

by cedarmoons



Series: i'll bring you home [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Character Study, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Depressed inquisitor, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Hamilton References, Implied/Referenced Major Character Death, Minor Character Death, Post-Break Up, references to suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-10 11:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 141,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12298590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons
Summary: She pushes back her hood, exposing the points of her ears. It is all of thirty seconds before the humans start to notice—they look at her with surprise, then confusion, then rage. She is undaunted.Let them see.Let them know a Dalish elf has come to Wycome.





	1. vir banal'ras

**Author's Note:**

> a thousand thousand thank yous for my always wonderful and ever patient beta, playwithdinos. she's read ten different takes on the same scenes, and, oh yeah, **over forty-eight thousand words**. holy shit. i've been working on this fic since november of 2016, mostly because i wanted to revisit ariala's canon, and i think it's finally time to start posting some of this fic, because at this rate this fic will be 100k, which is just too damn long for a oneshot.
> 
> please note this fic is tragic by nature. there will be graphic depictions of violence and less graphic mentions of bodily decay, depiction of depression and (on a much smaller scale) references to suicidal thoughts, and minor/NPC character death as well as reference to a major character death that happens pre-fic. If any or all of that is not your cup of tea, please feel free to click the back button.
> 
> thanks, and please enjoy!

_Stop. You are perfect exactly as you are_.

Ariala stares at her reflection in the looking glass. An elaborate crown of branches curls across her forehead and temples. Its mother tree, decorated with leaves and spring blossoms, stretches down her back and across her shoulder blades. It had hurt most when the needle pressed against the bone, but her grandmother had tattooed her with loving care, gently wiping away the blood, whispering _you are so brave, my dearest_.

She had put a hound in the dip of Ariala’s spine, beside the base of the tree of Mythal. _He will watch for the Dread Wolf, little heart, and he will keep you safe._

She bears the Mother’s mark, a pattern unique to Clan Lavellan. And once she is gone, it will be gone, too. Another scrap of tradition—another piece of their culture—lost to the ravenous hunger of time.

A letter rests beside her, folded and re-folded so much the creases have begun to wear at the paper. She has read its contents over and over again, and yet the reality has yet to puncture the numbness that had enveloped her since Solas left her in Crestwood.

_You carry Clan Lavellan with you. Be brave, my dearest._

She traces the branches that twine across her temples, and asks the Well if they are truly slave marks. It is a long moment before the Well stirs, its presence an unsettling awareness that tickles the back of her skull, and hisses _unworthy_. The echoes of its condemnation bring a migraine.

Another hour passes before she sets down her simple little looking glass and looks out the window, where the mountain peaks are outlined in pink predawn light. Another half-hour before her bedroll and bow are packed, a bag of coins is tied to her belt, and her horse is saddled.

“I will return soon,” she tells Dennet. “Please watch over him for me.”

Dennet nods, and she heads to the War Room, where she had instructed her advisors to meet her at dawn, for an emergency meeting. She is the first one there. Cullen and Josephine arrive quickly, worry in their eyes. It is just after dawn, after all, and she has never willingly been up before ninth bell. Leliana comes after them, but there is nothing save quiet acceptance in her expression.

She had been the one to deliver the letter.

“Inquisitor?” Cullen asks. “What is wrong? What happened?”

Ariala hands Josephine the letter, wordless. Josephine gives her a confused glance, then unfolds the note. “Da’len,” she reads, “I know not whether this will reach you. The Duke of Wycome is dead, and the soldiers of Wycome blame us.” A breath escapes her, and she looks up. “Oh, Ari.”

“My clan is dead,” Ariala says, looking down at the War Table. “They cannot pass on to the Beyond until someone is there to bury them, and watch over their graves for a night.” She takes a deep breath and lifts her head, staring at a spot just over Leliana’s shoulder. “I called you here to tell you that I am going to Wycome to give them their proper rites. I will return as soon as I am able. Thank you. Dismissed.”

None of them move. “Inquisitor, I—” Cullen opens his mouth, and then closes it, frowning as though he is unsure of what to say.

“Corypheus could strike at any moment,” Leliana says. “What if he attacks Skyhold while you are away?”

“We destroyed his army in the Arbor Wilds,” Ariala says. “Samson is our prisoner and Calpernia abandoned his cause. We took down Florianne, so he has no way to control Orlais. The Nightmare is locked away in the Fade, and we have closed every rift in Southern Thedas, so his demon army is gone. I have the Well, so he doesn’t have a vessel to channel Mythal’s power. He is beaten, Leliana, and at this point it is only a question of when _we_ choose to end it.”

“But he still has the orb,” Leliana says. “And his dragon. Both of which are dangerous in their own right.”

“Leliana is right,” Cullen says. “It’s too risky. We can’t in good faith let you go to Wycome when Corypheus could—”

“I’m not asking permission, Cullen,” Ariala says, though she feels her heart begin to race. She had not thought they would deny her this. Involuntary tears prick her eyes, and she looks back down at the War Table. Her head throbs, the migraine sending spikes of pain through her right eye. “I am going. Telling you was a pleasantry, nothing more.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Cullen says, brow knitting together. “Inquisitor, we all feel for your loss, but what if you leave and the Venatori capture you? Then all of this will be for nothing! If Corypheus kills you, he could open the Breach again, and then we would have no one—”

The numbness punctures, and suddenly her grief and reigned-in frustration floods through her, a smoldering under her breastbone that leaves agony in its wake. _Most of the clan is already dead._

“I have not asked for _anything!_ ” she shouts.

She has never— _never_ —raised her voice during her time as Inquisitor. All three of her advisors flinch, but she cannot bring herself to care. “I have not asked for a single _fucking_ thing as Inquisitor. I did everything anyone—you, the Inner Circle, even Mother _fucking_ Giselle—asked me to do, with no complaints! I traveled the world for this Inquisition! And the only thing I want, to _bury my family_ , you deny me.” She’s shaking, tears in her eyes, her delayed reaction finally caught up with her. “Well, fuck that. Fuck that! I’m going and you can’t  _fucking_ stop me.”

Leliana stares at her, speechless. Ariala takes a deep breath, digging her nails into her palms. A bad habit, picked up from—she unfurls her fingers, tucking her hands behind her back. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she says, quieter this time, ignoring the tears on her cheeks. “Goodbye.”

No one moves to stop her, but when her hand rests on the doorknob, Josephine says, “Ari, please don’t go alone. It would give us all some peace of mind if someone was with you.”

Ariala pauses at the door, staring at the wood grains, then shakes her head and leaves the room.

Solas is standing a polite distance from the door, staring far too intently at the tapestry of Andraste on the wall. He carries a stack of parchment in his arms, and he does not react to her presence.

Her chest flares with a sharp, aching pain, because the last time she had seen his face was in Crestwood. She takes a small, steadying breath, but despite how soft it is the sound of it seems to echo in the hall. She turns away and wipes at her cheeks.

Once she’s composed, Ariala stares at him, but his gaze remains steadfast on the tapestry. “How much did you hear?” she asks him. Her tongue is heavy with the words she longs to say— _when did you get back?_ _Why did you leave?_

But that doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

Solas looks down. “Enough,” he says, very softly. He meets her gaze, and there is nothing in his eyes, except perhaps pity. She wants to claw her throat out, but instead she notes the purple bruises under his eyes. It seems she had not been alone in a sleepless night. “Cullen wished for a report on the state of the Veil in Crestwood. Is he inside?”

“Yes.” She walks past him, steadfastly keeping her eyes forward. She feels his gaze on her until she leaves the hall.

When she returns to the stables, Dennet is brushing her gelding down. “Stay safe, my lady,” Dennet tells her, and she is so grateful for his discretion—he had asked her no questions—she almost breaks down again. She bites her lip and reaches for him, pulling him into a hug.

“Thank you,” she whispers against his shirt. Dennet awkwardly pats her back, and she pulls away, offering a watery smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

She mounts her horse, reaching down to pat his neck. “Let’s go, Syl,” she murmurs, urging him into a trot with a click of her tongue.

They do not get very far.

Leliana is standing in front of the portcullis, arms crossed. Syl whinnies at the sight of her, slowing to a stop at Ariala’s urging. She runs her fingers through his coarse mane and stares at Leliana. “What do you want?”

Leliana uncrosses her arms, revealing a roll of parchment. “This is a list of contacts I drew up for you last night. There is a ship in Jader that will depart in five days, and it will go straight to Wycome. And I have arranged for an arborist to meet an elven client in Wycome in a fortnight’s time. The names and details of these men are on this paper.”

Ariala looks away. “And you want something in return, I suppose.”

“Indeed. One simple request: do not go alone.”

“Who is there to ask?” Ariala asks, uncaring of her biting tone. “Dorian is studying red lyrium with Dagna, Vivienne is managing Skyhold’s dignitaries with Josephine, you and Cullen are needed here. Sera is doing Jenny business, Varric is better off here, Cassandra is with Bull and the Chargers in the Western Approach—”

“Solas has volunteered,” Leliana says, softly, and Ariala goes cold.

“ _No_ ,” she says, immediately. She presses two fingers to her forehead in an effort to assuage the coming migraine. She had avoided mentioning Cole because Cole’s presence would just be too painful—but even Cole, who can read her thoughts, would be better than Solas.

Leliana nods, and folds the parchment in half, tucking it into her leather glove. She steps aside, allowing Ariala space to ride out of the castle. “Then I bid you a safe journey, Inquisitor. I wish you best of luck finding your way to Wycome.”

She turns, beginning to walk away. Ariala blinks, and twin tears fall onto her leather gloves. She bows her head, pressing her fingertips to her eyes in attempt to stave off more. “Wait,” she calls. Leliana turns back. “Let me talk to him. I’ll—I’ll try to get Dorian instead. Or Cole.”

She nods, and as Ariala dismounts, Leliana takes hold of Syl’s reins. “I will have someone watch your horse here,” she says, tucking the documents in a satchel tied to Syl’s saddle. Ariala nods, then turns and heads for Skyhold.

She finds Solas in his room, packing his bedroll. He is stiff, silent, undoubtedly aware of her presence behind him. “What are you doing, Solas?” she asks, voice hoarser than she’d like.

“I should think it obvious,” he replies.

“No. Why did you offer to come with me to Wycome?” She swallows. This is the longest conversation they’d had since Crestwood and—two weeks later, she’s still raw, still on the verge of tears whenever she thinks of how he had looked at her that night, before he left.

 _You are perfect exactly as you are_.

Had he meant it?

If he had, why did he leave?

“We have closed the rifts in southern Thedas. The Veil remains stable, for now. I have no duties; the rest of the Inner Circle, by contrast, have focused their immediate efforts outside of the Inquisition’s concerns. I was the logical choice.”

She takes a breath. “I don’t want you to come,” she says. Her voice is, remarkably, steady.

His hands still, then ball in the quilt spread over the bed. After a moment, he turns, clasping his hands behind his back in a now-familiar gesture. One he utilizes when he wants to be aloof. “I believed we could both be mature adults about this situation,” he says, and she takes a step back, a stone forming in the pit of her gut. He inclines his head. “If that is not the case, please inform me. Your advisors wish someone to accompany you to Wycome; I am the only one of the Inner Circle who can do so without abandoning preexisting conflicts. What was between us is irrelevant to this mission.”

What _was_ between us.

His first acknowledgment of Crestwood, and it hurts, it _hurts_. It’s also fucking _infuriating_. How dare he condescend to her, as if it’s so simple as—as being upset over their breakup.

“You think I don’t want you to come because of Crestwood?” she asks, fisting her hands at her sides.

“What other reason is there?”

“Maybe I don’t want someone who has regularly derided my people attending their funerals,” she retorts, temper rising. “Maybe I want to grieve in private, without any prying eyes watching and silently judging my _backward, savage_ customs.”

She knows what awaits her in Wycome. She knows what her grief will reduce her to. She does not want anyone seeing her like that. Especially not Solas.

Solas is impassive, which only infuriates her more. She shakes her head, unable to stop her sneer. “But, sure. If you want to think it’s because I’m being childish over you leaving, be my guest. Anything that fits your worldview, right?” Solas flinches, but does not look away. She clenches her jaw, swallows again. “If you’re not at the main gate within the hour, I’m leaving without you.”

She turns around. “Inquisitor,” he says, but that is not her name, that is not what he had been calling her for the past six months _(vhenan, ma sal’shiral)_ so she ignores him and walks out, refusing to look back.

When she reaches the main gate again, she checks Syl’s saddle, finding Leliana’s documents where the spymaster had left them. She sighs, pressing her pounding forehead against the leather. Syl turns his head and snuffles at her, and she raises a hand, dragging it down his neck.

She could leave right now. It would surely take Leliana some time to recreate the itinerary, longer for Solas to catch up to her. She knew how to cover her tracks. And if she got away in time, if she managed to get to Wycome alone, she would get to properly grieve her clan. Her family.

And she wouldn’t have to deal with a smug, self-righteous, judgemental, condescending ass—

She squeezes her eyes shut, remembering the weight of his hand in hers as they walked to the grove, and pushes away from Syl with a curse. She shakes her head, ignoring her sudden blurred vision, and mounts her horse. Syl’s ears flick back and he glances to the side, as if he can sense her indecision.

She takes a deep breath, takes his reins in hand. “Inquisitor,” Solas calls, voice faint. She turns her head, sees him standing on the stone platform, his bedroll and pack on his back and his staff in hand. She watches him climb down the staircase and approach her. “Allow me to retrieve my horse from the stables, and then we may depart.”

She nods, wordless, and watches him leave. It is another ten minutes before he returns atop his silver mare, Eirlana. Once he reaches her, she turns Syl and leaves Skyhold, urging him into a canter with a click of her tongue once the portcullis is at their backs.

They do not speak to each other the entire day.

— ✦ —

That evening, when they set up camp for the night, she sits on the rocks and watches the sunset, her legs folded and pulled to her chest and her chin resting on her knees. The sky is streaked a brilliant orange and gold, and the sun is dark enough to look at directly.

She is glad she can still enjoy the small beauties the world offers.

Once the sun is set, but while the sky is still light, she sets about looking for what she needs.

She returns to the campsite with several rocks, four of roughly the same size and one smaller than the rest. Solas sits before the fire, but looks up at her return. He says nothing and watches as she kneels, facing north. Ariala does not look at him as she sets the stones in place, one in each direction, and then the smallest rock—representing herself—in the center. She takes the small knife from her belt and pricks her finger, allowing her blood to stain the center rock.

“Ghilan’nain, Halla-Mother,” she whispers, “I ask that you watch over my journey. Lead my feet to the surest path, and ensure swift travel to my destination.” She closes her eyes, imagining the hills of Wycome, the green grass clashing with the red of her clan’s aravel sails. She thinks of her desperation to get to the campsite, her desire for a quick voyage. She lifts her head, opening her eyes to observe the stars above her.

She takes a stick and siphons some ash from the campfire, waiting several minutes for the ash to cool before she takes a handful. She sprinkles the ash over the center and northern stone, indicating the location she wishes to go. “Guide me as you have guided the People who came before me. _Lasa’em dareth shiral_.”

In the back of her mind, the Well whispers _unworthy_.

She waits several moments, focusing her thoughts and energy on where she wants to go, and why. When the ritual ends, she closes her eyes and exhales, then gets up and dusts her hands off, away from the circle of stones. The site will have to remain undisturbed overnight for the luck to settle.

“What was the purpose of that?” Solas asks. When she looks at him, his brow is creased. He does not seem to ask from a point of arrogance, but from confusion, and that is why she answers him.

“It was a prayer to Ghilan’nain. To watch over our journey, to ensure a safe and fast voyage.”

He stares at her—at the vallaslin, twining over her forehead and down her temples—and his mouth twists down. “Do you still believe in your elven gods? Even after all you have seen?”

Ariala sits back on her haunches and stares at the night sky. She thinks of the scraps of knowledge they’d found in the Temple of Mythal. _Ghilan’nain created monsters. Andruil went into the Void and emerged a madwoman. Falon’Din destroyed entire cities for their blood._

_Mythal was murdered._

“I don’t know, Solas.”

He nods, though he looks troubled, pensive, and after glaring at her vallaslin for a few moments, he averts his gaze to stare into the flames again. A strange anger twists inside her as she watches him. It’s not like her regular anger; this is ugly, dark, utterly unfamiliar. She wants to ask him what troubles him, even though she knows what his answer will be, but she doesn’t trust herself not to start a fight.

She doesn’t trust herself not to be cruel to him.

After several minutes of silence, Solas turns to the pack at his feet. He takes out a leather-bound journal and a stick of charcoal, tightly wrapped in linen. She watches him flip open to a blank page and start sketching.

She remembers browsing through that journal, after Solas had allowed her to look at it.

The sketches had started small. She had looked through them all—drawings of plants, accompanied by careful, neat annotations she did not want to attempt to read—and stumbled upon a drawing of her, bowed over a book. The first book she’d tried to read after she learned the trade alphabet; meant for toddlers, but no less difficult to understand, especially when she wasn’t muttering the words aloud. Her drawing’s hair was swept over one shoulder and she had looked… elegant. Pretty.

Ariala had looked up from her spot on the couch, only to find Solas watching her from the scaffolding, his hands folded in his lap and his leg swinging absently. He met her gaze and a muscle in his jaw had twitched, a tic that only surfaced when he was nervous, so she’d smiled and sat up. “Come here,” she said, setting the journal aside.

When he joined her, she brushed her fingertips under his chin and kissed the hollow of his cheek. He inhaled, a short, sharp breath, and she smiled against his skin. “It’s beautiful,” she told him. “Thank you for showing me this, arasha.”

Arasha. _My happiness_. A fitting endearment.

She’d pulled away, fingers threading through his, and his gaze shifted from guarded to tender. He’d lifted their joined hands up and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “The drawing’s beauty pales to its muse,” he said, and she had laughed _sweet talker_ against his mouth.

But those days are past, now.

She wonders if he’d ripped out that particular page.

Her chest aches at the thought, and she casts her eyes down to the fire once more. “Did you set the wards for the night?” she asks. After Haven, they hadn’t needed a watch with Solas in their party; his wards were strong enough to ensure that, if placed properly, they would have ample time to deal with intruders. As time went on, he had been able to attune the wards to recognize certain people. It was a useful ability.

“I have,” he replies, not looking up from his sketching.

“All right. I’m going to bed, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She gets up and, after checking up on Syl and Eirlana to make sure they will not wander from camp overnight, retires to the tent they share. Her bedroll is as far from his as the tent will allow. She changes into more comfortable attire and lies on her side on the bedroll, facing the tent canvas.

She falls asleep like that, curled up on her side, angled as far away from his bedroll as possible.

She dreams of screams, of fire, of slaughter. The carnage she witnessed on the Dirth is echoed in the knolls of Wycome, but her clan replaces Orlesian civilians. She watches the blaze consume the aravels, watches her family flee in terror.

Her grandmother runs into her arms.

“Ariala,” she gasps, “help us—”

Behind her, a lone figure strides from the flames, untouched. Corypheus sneers at her as he raises a taloned hand, and her grandmother crumbles to dust in her arms.

— ✦ —

She wakes in silence, tears on her cheeks. Her nose is stuffed and her eyes are puffy and sore. Her muscles ache from yesterday’s long ride, but everything feels numb, a heavy emptiness nestled in the very center of her heart.

She forces herself to rise anyway.

The bedroll rustles under her as she moves, and she stiffens, turning her head to glance at Solas over her shoulder. He is flat on his back, hands tucked under his armpits and ankles crossed, sound asleep. She turns away and wipes her tears with the back of her hand, before taking a steadying, quiet breath and going outside.

There is work to do.

Her first task, in the predawn light, is to look for the herbs she needs to avoid seasickness. She had been violently sick on the voyage to Ferelden. The sailors aboard had mocked her for it, and she has no intention of repeating the experience.

She gets lucky; she finds ginger roots in the forest, as well as a peppermint plant and a blackberry bush by a stream. The blackberry bush has been raided by the local wildlife, but what fruits remain are ripe enough. She opens her herb pouch, where a few peppermint leaves and ginger roots already reside, and fill it to the brim with blackberries. The empty whisky tin she’s tied to her belt bounces against her side as she moves.

After that, she checks the traps she’d set out for the night, and is pleased to find two rabbits. The third is empty but triggered and bloodstained, so something must’ve had a late night snack at their expense. She takes the rabbits and ties them to her belt, hoping the meat hadn’t spoiled overnight.

She does not thank Andruil for her catch.

The prayer’s absence sits like a stone between her lungs.

When she returns, the sky is lightening, but the dawn has not yet come, and Solas is still asleep. She starts the fire anew and sits down, facing east. She skins and cleans the rabbits, occasionally reaching into her pouch and sneaking in one or five blackberries, and sets them over the fire to cook. The meat hasn’t spoiled, thankfully.

Ariala watches the sunrise as the meat cooks.

Solas still isn’t up by the time the rabbits are done, so she takes them from the fire and breaks the spit in two, one rabbit on each. She sticks the long end of the spits into the ground, deep enough to stay upright, but not so deep that their breakfast touches the ground.

When she enters the tent, Solas hasn’t moved, but his lips are parted slightly and his breath is soft in sleep. He looks so at peace that she doesn’t want to wake him. But they are on a schedule, so she reluctantly whispers his name. He only sighs in his sleep, so she repeats his name, louder, and though he stirs his eyes do not open.

Honestly, she knows he’s a heavy sleeper, but it’s like he’s doing it on purpose.

“Solas,” she says again, loud and insistent. She touches his shoulder, ready to shake him awake, and he jerks, eyes snapping open. She withdraws her touch and the stiffness in him subsides.

“Inquisitor,” he says, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” She would have found humor in this moment, once, but—not today. She just sits on her haunches and folds her hands in her lap. “Breakfast.”

“Ah.” He looks sheepish. “Thank you for waking me.”

She looks away, getting up and leaving the tent. Her hands are still bloodstained from the skinning, but the blood is dry and the stream is a ten minute walk, and she is too hungry to wash first. The horses are awake and mulling about, tails flicking absently as they graze.

When Solas emerges, he is dressed for the day. He picks up the spit and moves to the opposite side of the fire, and she watches as he avoids her stone circle, swaying around it as easily as he had that fragile sprout on the mountainside, after Haven.

He could have walked through it just as easily.

She swallows hard.

“There’s a village up the road, about ten miles,” she says. “We’ll be able to have a heartier meal there. This is just to tide us over until then. There’s a river that way,” she nods toward the forest, “where we can wash up after this. And then we’ll be on our way toward Jader.”

He nods, studying her with a familiar intensity, so she looks down. When she’s done, she tosses her remains in the fire and stands, disappearing into the tent to change into familiar, simple reinforced leather armor. She slings the bag carrying her unstrung bow across her back, fastening it at an angle, and straps her quiver to her side.

Solas’s pack is sitting on the floor. She hesitates only a moment before she puts her gloves inside. She’ll put them on after they wash.

Solas helps her with breaking down the rest of the camp—taking down the tent and preparing the horses—and then, when they are ready, she takes them all to the stream. The horses drink while they rinse their hands and faces downstream.

She remembers her gloves after they’ve mounted and started their day. “Solas, wait,” she says, urging Syl to slow down and walk alongside Eirlana. Solas goes still when she reaches for him, and she purses her lips, disquieted at the sight. “I put my gloves in your bag.”

“Ah.” He turns, allowing an easier reach, and she reaches in, digging around the potions and blankets.

She can feel the heat of his body—and the tension in his back—through the bag’s fabric. She retrieves the gloves and fastens the bag as quickly as she can.

They do not speak for the first hour of the ride. Solas is the first one to break the silence, which surprises her. He is usually the one content to travel in silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him glance at her. “How many people were in your clan?” he asks.

 _Were_. She ignores the pang deep in her chest at his use of past tense. “Forty-two. Forty-three, including me. We were a large clan. Most clans keep their members around thirty-ish to maintain mobility.”

“Why was yours so large? I imagine it took a toll on resources.”

“Oh, definitely. But Deshanna—my grandmother, the Keeper—she never turned away people who wanted to join us, or people she thought needed us. We had city-elves, mage children the other clans didn’t want, foundlings, a few elves we’d rescued from slavers.” Ariala smiles, and the numbness aches, just a little bit. “She just… loved people.”

“It seems to run in the family,” Solas says, in the same tone he’d used when he called her graceful, all those months ago.

She takes a breath. “I suppose.”

She looks and sees Solas staring at her. “I am sorry I will not have the chance to meet her,” he says, softer. He sounds sincere. She looks away, squeezing her eyes shut against the sudden prick of tears.

“Me too.” She swallows. When the threat of tears has passed, she looks back at Solas and manages a small smile. “Believe it or not, I think she would’ve liked you. She always liked a good storyteller.”

There is a short, thoughtful pause. “Did she raise you?” he asks. “You have spoken little of your parents.”

“My mother died in childbirth,” she says, “delivering a younger brother who apparently lived for a few days. I never knew either of them. My father…” She thinks of a warm smile, of boisterous, deep laughter and big hands showing much smaller ones how to hold a bow. “He died when I was thirteen. My grandmother took me in after that.”

Solas is quiet. “I am sorry.”

She is grateful he does not ask how her father died. That is not a story she wants to tell today.

“Since we’re asking personal questions,” she says, “tell me about _your_ family.”

“My—ah. Yes.” When she looks at him, he looks… lost.

Ariala arches an eyebrow. “You _do_ have a family, right? You didn’t just spring fully formed from the Fade?”

He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. “No.” He glances down at his horse’s mane. “It is only that I have not thought of them in some time,” he admits. “They have been gone for many years.”

“Oh.” Now she feels like an ass. “You don’t have to talk about them.”

“They were like every other family, in their ways,” he says, his expression soft, lost in thought. It reminds her of better days, spent in a rotunda that smelled of fresh paint and herbs. “My brother and I accused our parents of harboring favorites; we competed to outdo one another. He was known for his cleverness. But he used his intellect to create things, rather than craft elaborate pranks and be a general nuisance like I was. He wanted to better the world.”

A somber look steals over him then, and he shakes his head. “My father was a soldier. A militiaman may be more apt for this world, I suppose. My mother was a healer; he was one of her patients. That was how they met. He courted her after he’d recovered, and eventually they settled down.”

“Sounds like a relatively peaceful life,” she says. “Were they happy?”

“Yes,” he says, quietly. “Very.”

His expression softens, becomes wistful from some unknown thought. A muscle in his cheek twitches and he casts his eyes downward. She watches in silence as the perpetual shadow of his melancholy drapes over him, and the question is at the tip of her tongue.

_What made you like this?_

She wonders, not for the first time, what caused his smiles to be so rare, and his laughter rarer still. But he has never divulged that information to her, not even at their closest; he would probably withdraw even further into himself if she asked.

Before Crestwood, she would have tried to distract him from whatever weighed upon his mind with a joke. But she cannot do that, not now. Because his amusement would make her think of other jokes, of snorting laughter and exasperated but genuine smiles. Stolen kisses in hidden stairways and fleeting, gentle touches.

That is lost to her, now. Likely forever.

So she holds her tongue and turns away.

— ✦ —

An Inquisition agent meets them outside Jader. He salutes her once they reach him. “G’morning, Your Worship. Sister Nightingale told me to expect you both,” he says, helping her dismount. “I’m to take your horses back to Skyhold. Yarrow will have mounts for you once you land in Wycome.”

Ariala nods. “Yarrow,” she says, committing the name to memory. “And who are you, serah?”

The man smiles. “Tanner, Your Worship. Your mounts will be in good hands with me.”

Ariala smiles back at him. “My thanks, Tanner. Please inform Nightingale that we proceed as planned.”

Tanner salutes once more, and leaves them when their horses are relieved of their packs. Ariala watches him ride away for a little bit, then turns toward Jader’s open gate. There are no archers or guards on the parapets, but as she walks under the portcullis, she feels dozens of eyes on her.

She reflexively checks her hands to ensure her gloves are still on.

“You know the captain of this ship?” Solas asks. Ariala finds the slip of paper, tucked away in her cloak’s inner pocket. She unfolds it and reads it aloud.

“Leliana only identifies the ship. _Siren’s Call II_. We’ll find the ship in the docks downhill. Apparently it leaves tomorrow.” Ariala sets down the paper. “We made good time.”

“Indeed,” Solas says.

They find their way to the docks well enough; Jader is built on a cliff, and the scent of fish and salt only gets stronger as they go further downhill. Soon the alleys and tenement buildings clear out to open air and large white sails. Seagull cries fill the air, and people bustle through the docks, conducting their daily business. A old woman sells crawfish; a sailor sits on a crate, making knots and smoking a pipe; several men roll barrels up a ship’s gangplank.

Everything smells like fish.

They have to ask three different people before they are directed to the _Siren’s Call II_  It turns out to be a swift Marcher sloop, and a grey-bearded man is speaking to another man dressed in fine clothes. “We’ll be out of here when we’re good and ready!” the greybeard says to him. “Captain says we’re not to leave until our guest arrives.”

“You have already overstayed your visit by three days, and there are other ships waiting to dock—”

“You’ll have to take it up with the captain,” says the man, one of his eyes gleaming in the sun. The clerk must make a face, for the greybeard laughs, an ugly, grating sound. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Ariala approaches him after the clerk has left, face red and eyes stormy. “You know the captain of this ship?” she asks, nodding toward the _Siren’s Call II._

“I’m her first mate, sweetheart,” says the greybeard. He leans against a docking post and leers at her unabashedly. He smiles, and one of his teeth is black. She feels Solas stiffen beside her. “We don’t get many of your like in Jader. Maybe I could show you around the city, we can get to know each other. I’ll give you a… personal tour.”

Solas takes a breath.

“I’d like to speak to the captain,” says Ariala, before he can speak. “I believe I’m the guest you mentioned earlier.”

The man’s demeanor changes instantly. He straightens, shock flitting across his face before he takes off his cap and presses it over his heart. “Deepest apologies, Your Worship. We weren’t expecting you ’til tomorrow. Captain’s out on the town. I can take you to her, if you’d like. Name’s Thatcher, ma’am.”

“Yes, please.” Ariala looks at Solas, but he is still staring at Thatcher, eyes narrowed. She nudges him as Thatcher turns away. “Drop it,” she tells him, voice pitched too low for Thatcher to hear. Solas’s expression darkens further, but he nods.

Thatcher takes them to a bar. It’s atypically quiet, occupied only by what is presumably the locale’s typical drunks, and humming with the low drones of conversation. No raucousness like in the Herald’s Rest.

Ariala attributes the quiet to it being late morning.

The captain of the _Siren’s Call II_ is sitting with her back to them in a booth. “Captain,” says Thatcher, “our guest has arrived.”

The woman turns, revealing her face. Black hair is held back by a blue bandana, and hazel eyes glint up at Ariala. She’s beautiful, but Ariala can’t look away from the golden stud in her chin—well, under her lip.

“Lady Inquisitor,” says the captain, “I’m glad to finally meet you. Our little nightingale asked me to stay in Jader and take you to Wycome. I’m Captain Isabela.”

Ariala looks away from the piercing. “You know Leliana?”

Isabela smiles, lifting her glass of ale to her lips. “We got… acquainted in Denerim, during the Blight.” Her tone is heavy with innuendo, but Ariala isn’t eager to find out why. Isabela swallows and sets down the glass. “So. Now that you’re finally here, we can get out of Jader. We haven’t paid the docking fees and they’re eager to get rid of us.”

“When do we leave?”

“Well, we were planning on tomorrow, so the entire crew’s on shore leave.” Isabela grimaces. “Damned if I know where they all are, and I’m not eager to hunt them down. What do you say we head out tomorrow at dawn, sweet thing?”

“Okay,” Ariala replies.

Isabela grins at her. “It’s settled, then.”

Thatcher wrings his hat in his hands. “Really very sorry about earlier, ma’am,” he tells Ariala, ducking his head. She can see his pink scalp underneath his thin, wispy white hair. “Won’t happen again.”

Isabela sighs and leans back in her booth. “Oh. What did you do, Thatcher?” she asks.

“Disrespected and propositioned her,” Solas replies, tone cool. “One would think a captain would have better leash over her sailors. Perhaps ensure they have a basic sense of common decency. Or is that too much to ask of your kind?”

Ariala clenches her jaw.

Thatcher’s eyes flash with anger, but then he looks at Ariala and glances down at his hat. After a moment, he puts his cap back on. “I’ll head back to the ship, captain,” he tells her. Ariala glances at Solas, who watches the sailor go, back straight and expression entirely unrepentant.

When she turns back to Isabela, the captain is staring at Solas, her finger circling the rim of her glass. Ariala can’t tell if she’s irritated or amused. “See you at dawn tomorrow, Inquisitor,” she says, without looking at her. Ariala nods, then grabs Solas’s arm and forcefully escorts him from the tavern.

Once they’re outside, she turns to him. “Really?” she asks, crossing her arms. “ _Really_? Insulting our only way to get to Wycome? They could leave tonight without us because of your recklessness.”

“We would find another ship,” he says. “Hopefully one with a more savory crew.”

“And who knows how long that would take,” she snaps. “Each day that passes is another day my family rots. I don’t need you defending me and I don’t need your _I’m-better-than-literally-everyone_ attitude ruining this for me.”

“I have never claimed to be better—”

“Oh, really? We must mark the occasion of you thinking you’re not superior to everyone else,” she snipes at him, anger flaring hot in her belly. “Perhaps we should plant a tree. But no, the fault is mine, for expecting what you could never _truly_ accomplish.”

Her words are a mimicry of his own, so many months ago in Haven. She hasn’t forgotten his disdain of the Dalish. Neither, it seems, has he.

His mouth opens, but he says nothing. Ariala stares at him, waiting, that dark pit of rage inside her thirsting for a provocation, but all he does is watch her, his eyes soft and mournful around the corners. His inaction is infuriating. After several long moments, she exhales harshly, and that knot of rage loosens slightly.

“We have all day,” she says, finally. “Want to explore the city?”

It’s the best peace offering she has. Even if she doesn’t want to extend it.

“Certainly,” Solas says, quietly.

The first thing they find is the walkway at the edge of the city, which gives a beautiful view of the ocean and the cliffs below. The walkway is lined by a low stone wall on the left, and bushes on the right. A few of the bushes are blooming, and sometimes Ariala stops to smell the blossoms. There are children playing on the grass opposite of the bushes, carefully supervised by their parents, many of whom warily watch Ariala and Solas both.

As they walk, they find a little stall operated by a small elven woman. It’s full of little glass whimseys, most of which fit into the palm of her hand. The first thing she sees is a mobile made of sea glass and a piece of glass shaped into a starfish. Several lines of sea glass on twine hang from the points of the starfish. Each unique piece blends together to form a three-tiered splash of color: bright, pale blue at the top, silver in the middle, and white at the bottom. The pieces clink against each other in the breeze.

Ariala watches the pieces sway in the wind. There is something peaceful about the sound the pieces make as they collide, then settle back into place. “It’s beautiful,” she says to the woman, who beams at her. Ariala looks down and touches a small glass seashell. “How do you make these?”

As the woman explains, she spots movement from the corner of her eye. Solas picks up some kind of animal, painted white and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. His fingers uncurl and she sees a halla, its horns impossibly, beautifully curled. Ariala looks at where he’d picked it up and sees three other halla, all of which have the same body shape but different horn patterns.

Her chest aches. Solas glances at her and, quickly, returns the halla to its place among the glass herd.

The merchant notices her attention and grabs the same one that Solas had taken. “These took me many hours,” she says, with a small smile as she presents it to Ariala. Ariala takes it from her and holds it up, examining the figurine. It has no eyes, no hoof clefts, no other decoration. “I thought the Dalish traders that sometimes stop by would have an interest, but they did not. I can’t imagine why.”

 _These halla trinkets aren’t practical_ , Ariala thinks. The place where the horns meet the head is thin, and looks far too breakable. Even if she wrapped the halla figurine in thick wool to protect it, it would likely be destroyed in the voyage to Wycome—or even the return journey to Skyhold.

“It’s beautiful,” Ariala admits, and gives the woman a small, sad smile. “But we’re going to sea tomorrow. I don’t want to break it on our voyage.”

The woman looks disappointed, but she nods and places the halla gingerly among its herd. Ariala sends one last, longing look its way, then thanks the merchant and walks away. After a few moments, she turns and sees Solas talking to the merchant.

She waits until he leaves the merchant and joins her side, then resumes walking. “What was that about?”

Solas clasps his hands behind his back. “I made some inquiries,” he says.

“Oh?” she asks. He only smiles, and they lapse into silence once more.

As the minutes stretch on, her mind wanders. Ariala thinks of the merchant and her bare face, and something dark and ugly settles in her. She clenches her jaw, refusing to say anything. But she cannot stop herself from wondering: _does he think that merchant above me, because she is barefaced and I am not?_

_Would he have left if I’d let him take my vallaslin?_

That sudden, unbidden thought makes her recoil. She is not the type to change herself for another’s happiness. Not—not such a vital part of herself, at least. She had been right when she’d told him the vallaslin meant something else to her. Something _good_. The Dalish had taken something used originally to demean and humiliate their people, and turned it into a mark of pride, of strength.

She does not regret her choice. She only regrets… well.

She regrets what came after.

They explore a little more, finding a beautiful tavern that serves excellent clam chowder. They eat under a shaded terrace behind the building, and Solas admires the fresco that’s painted across the back wall—a view of an endless ocean, and golden skies above it. If Ariala looks at it from the corner of her eye, she can almost believe that the waves are moving.

After lunch, they find an inn close to the docks, one that doesn’t smell too badly of fish. The innkeeper gives them a room with two beds, and they drop off their bedrolls and their weapons to go explore the rest of the city.

Jader’s wealth becomes more apparent as they go further up the hill the city’s built on. The roads become cleaner, and the plain walls start to become decorated, with murals, mosaics and statues tucked away into their own personal niches. The houses become less lopsided and more stately, but they lose their colors, too.

It’s quieter uptown.

The shouts from fishmongers and sailors fade, as does the crash of the waves against the cliffside. The smell of the sea salt is just as strong, though. They find a garden square, complete with a fountain with a griffon centerpiece and stone benches flanked by blooming white rosebushes, and take a minute to catch their breath. When Ariala sits, her arm brushes against a rose. She turns, regarding the bloom.

After a moment’s hesitation, she breaks the stem cleanly. She lifts the rose to her nose, inhaling deeply, and the familiar scent soothes her. When she looks up, Solas is standing an arm’s length away, hands clasped behind his back, studying the city in silence.

“Solas,” she says, and he glances at her. She pats the stone beside her.

When he sits, a third person could fit between them. She thinks of nights in the rotunda, when he would read to her and she would perch her chin on his shoulder, trying to read along and failing miserably. Her brow furrows as she stares at her rose.

_None of that matters anymore. He doesn’t care._

“I’m sorry about earlier,” she eventually says. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Your criticisms were not without merit,” he says, softly. “And… I hope I have demonstrated that my views have… changed since Haven.”

Ariala looks up, only to see him watching her, eyes soft and somber. She thinks of how he had been unwilling to even discuss the Dalish, so long ago in the Hinterlands, and how that had changed as they spent more time together. Silence had become snide comments, then half-rhetorical questions, then genuine curiosity.

_Have I misjudged them? — Solas, you based your perception of hundreds of people based on a single interaction with one clan. Of course you did._

“You have,” she returns, voice equally quiet. She looks up and flashes a brief smile at him. He smiles back, tentatively. She wants to tell him about the perpetual anger that has nestled into the deepest cracks in her broken heart. She wants to ask him how she can recover from the silent, numbing grief that follows her shadow.

She wishes Cole was with her. He would know how to untangle the knot of emotions within her, coiling like poison in her gut. He would know what to say, to make her feel—not _better_ , but perhaps less angry.

Dusk begins to settle over the city, and Ariala watches as lights—lanterns, placed in windowsills—begin to flicker through the streets below. It’s a little beautiful, watching Jader become half-bathed in a golden glow. She tells Solas as much.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Beautiful.”

He says it the same way as he had in Crestwood, hushed and solemn. She glances at him, only to find him staring out at the city. She looks away, chest aching.

“Why did you come with me?” she asks.

“As I told you before, your advisors thought it prudent—”

“It would be nice if you could be honest with me every once in a while,” she says, tone brittle.

His mouth shuts, teeth audibly clicking together. It is a long moment before he answers. “After Wisdom,” he ventures, hesitant, “you told me I did not need to mourn alone. I wished to extend the same offer to you.”

She is silent for a long time.

“Oh,” she says, finally, voice cracking.

“You have made it clear, though, that you do wish to be left alone to grieve when we reach your clan,” Solas says, rushing on, flustered. A muscle in his jaw twinges. “And that is—I will not—you will—”

“Solas,” she says, and he stops talking, the tips of his ears turning pink in the moonlight. “I’d like you at the vigil,” she continues, quietly.

“The vigil?”

“After we bury them, we watch over their graves for a night, and tell stories about them. Good stories, to remember how well we loved them. I’m no storyteller, not like you, but if you want to listen…”

“Yes,” he says, immediately. “Yes, that would be… yes.”

She laughs, just a huff of breath, and his expression softens when he looks at her. It reminds her of Crestwood—that look he’d had in his eyes, before he pulled away—so she swallows and regards the rose instead.

“We should probably return to the inn,” she says. Out of the corner of her eye, Solas nods, but neither of them move to leave the bench. Ariala lifts her head, watching the lanterns glitter in the cityscape below.

After several moments, she places the rose on top of its bush, then stands up and starts walking.

The innkeeper is reading a book when they return. She looks up at them, then gets to her feet. “Serahs,” she says, with a small, apologetic smile, “I’ve some bad news.”

“What is it?” Ariala asks.

“A family of four came in earlier today, after you’d left. We didn’t have any open rooms with the beds to accommodate them, so I gave them your room.” She sees Ariala’s expression and hurries on. “But—we did have a room available, for couples, and I moved your items to that room at no extra charge for you. _And_ there’s a bath in there already, just let me know if you want some hot water. I hope that’s agreeable for you, serahs?”

Ariala is too tired to say otherwise. “Well, if there’s a bath,” she says, and the innkeeper gives her a relieved smile and hands her a new key.

When they reach their room, there is indeed a bath behind a solid wood divider, and their bedrolls are placed neatly on top of the trunk at the foot of their bed. Solas immediately grabs his bedroll and starts unpacking it. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“I was going to sleep on the floor,” he says. “I assumed such an arrangement would be agreeable to you.”

“What happened to being mature adults?” she snipes. His hands still, and she sighs. “We’ve slept together before, Solas. But if you want to sleep on the floor, be my guest. I don’t care.”

He exhales, softly, and continues unpacking his bedroll. But all he does is grab a fresh pair of clothes and disappear behind the divider. Ariala changes while he bathes and slips under the covers, her back to the divider. She shuts her eyes and tries to fall asleep.

By the time Solas returns, she is already half-asleep. His exhale shakes as he carefully climbs into bed beside her. Ariala doesn’t move as he shifts, getting comfortable, and eventually she falls asleep to the sound of his soft, steady breaths.

— ✦ —

Once they’d heard that Corypheus was using the Emprise du Lion as a base for his red Templars—and that the Templars were using villagers as slaves, then using them for their red lyrium experiments—Ariala had ordered the Emprise liberated at once. They’d assaulted the wintry wasteland with the full might of the Inquisition, but all they’d managed to definitively liberate was Sahrnia.

That failure returns to her as a nightmare.

She dreams of red Templars attacking her camp in the dead of night. They break her bow and slaughter her companions, and take her to Suledin Keep, where Samson is waiting.

“Inquisitor,” he greets, with a grin. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.”

They take her down to the dungeons, where the only light is the glow of the red lyrium, and Fiona is in one of the cells, impaled on a stake of red lyrium. Flecks of it bead the walls, radiating unnatural heat. They don’t tell her when Corypheus is coming, but she can sense his arrival. She can feel the castle shake with the beat of his dragon’s wings.

And then, a rumbling voice above. “Bring me the rattus.”

She wakes up just as a Templar unlocks her cell.

It’s dark, quiet, and her heartbeat rushes in her ears. It takes several moments for her to get her bearings, and remind herself that she is safe.

In reality, Samson hadn’t been at the Keep. In reality, she hadn’t been held captive for more than a few days. In reality, a Templar named Delrin Barris had unlocked her cell and given her a recruit’s bow, and she’d emerged from the dungeons to find the Keep locked in battle, because Cassandra had already organized a counterattack to rescue her.

Cole had been the first to find her.

She’d found Solas, later, and she’d let him hold her until he stopped shaking.

Ariala opens her eyes, only to find that in their sleep they’d both moved. She’s pressed against Solas’s back, nose squashed against his shoulder blade. When she breathes, she smells old cotton and soap. And, worse, her arm is slung over his body, forearm trapped beneath his elbow, and he is sound asleep.

_Shite._

She slowly starts to extract herself, starting with her arm. Her fingertips drag over the fabric of his shirt as she pulls her elbow in, then freezes when Solas stirs. He mumbles something, and as she waits, blood pounding in her ears, he eventually sighs and goes still again.

It takes several minutes for her to successfully separate herself. She gets up, ignoring how the morning chill reminds her of the Emprise, and starts preparing for the day. It’ll be an hour yet before dawn, she figures. Not enough time for a bath, but enough to brew some ginger water for the trip.

Solas finds her thirty minutes before dawn, pouring distilled ginger root into her empty whisky tin. “Ginger?” he asks.

“For seasickness,” she says. “My trip to Ferelden was awful. I don’t want to repeat the experience.”

Once the whisky tin is full, they pack up and head for the docks. Captain Isabela is already on the ship, leaning against the portside, and when she sees them she waves. Ariala smiles back, and once they’d boarded the ship, Isabela sidles up to her. “Feel free to put your things in my cabin, Inquisitor,” she says. “It’s yours for the rest of the voyage.” She eyes Solas and smiles. “You’ll be sleeping below deck, with the rest of the crew. Thatcher’ll be your bunk mate.”

“Thatcher,” Solas repeats, mouth twisting as if he’d swallowed a lemon. Isabela winks at him, then turns to Ariala.

“Come on, sweet thing, I’ll show you where the cabin is. Leliana tells me you’re not much of a sailor, is that right?” She laughs. “Well, we’ve eight days to change _that!_ ”

— ✦ —

It’s an eight day voyage to Wycome. Isabela says it’s ten, if there are bad winds or storms.

They, of course, get bad winds _and_ storms.

Ariala drinks all of her ginger water in the first three days. She spends most of the voyage either hunched over the side of the ship, hunched over the chamberpot in the captain’s quarters, or curled up on her bed, trying to sleep off the nausea. She even resorts to eating a small chunk of raw ginger, which burns her mouth and only soothes her stomach for about an hour.

Her dreams are short, feverish things, haunted by monstrosities of red lyrium that hiss _unworthy_ with a thousand thousand ancient voices.

On the eighth day, after she’s vomited up her meagre breakfast because of relentless seasickness, someone knocks on the door. She lifts her head, then immediately looks away when Solas opens the door.

“I brought you tea,” he says, quietly. “For your stomach.”

“Ginger?” she rasps, looking up at him. He nods, then moves forward to sit beside her. He hands her the tin, and she takes a tentative sip, doing her best to ignore how her stomach roils with each gentle rock of the _Siren’s Call II_.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Thatcher gave me the tea,” he says. “He brewed it for you, but wanted me to give it to you.”

“Why?”

Solas half-smiles as he looks at her. “I believe he is frightened of you. He asked me a few days ago if you had truly killed a dragon with your bare hands.”

Ariala smiles and sips her tea. “And I’m sure you told him that I have killed no less than _three_ dragons with my bare hands.”

Solas laughs, and it’s punctuated by that little snort that breaks her heart. “But of course.” After a pause, he muses, “Thatcher has proven himself a better bunkmate than anticipated. He is… an agreeable man, I suppose. Once you look past his flaws.” His mouth twists as he says it.

 _As if you don’t have flaws_ , she wants to tell him, but she doesn’t. She takes a sip of her tea instead, watching him. After a moment, she says, “See what happens when you give people a chance? They surprise you.”

Her remark seems to catch him off-guard, because his mouth opens, then shuts, and his brow furrows a little bit. “Yes,” he murmurs. His gaze flicks away. “He taught me a card game called bridge a few days ago. I fear I have not quite mastered it, and the sailors are ribbing me for it.”

“Why?”

Solas’s smile is wider, now. “Over the course of our journey, I have been happily taking their money over games of Wicked Grace. It seems bridge is their way of getting their coin back.”

“Are you playing them tonight?” she asks, taking another sip of her tea. She’s already feeling better.

“There were no plans,” he says, “but plans can change.”

She smiles. “I’d like to watch. Stomach permitting. I can’t believe you’ve had a week to learn a card game and haven’t taken everyone’s money yet.”

“Yet,” he says, and she laughs. He laughs with her, and after a moment she looks down at the tin mug in her hands.

“Thank you for the tea,” she says. “It helped.”

“I am glad,” he says.

He stays with her in the captain’s quarters until dinnertime. They don’t speak, for the most part; what conversations they do have are inane, meaningless, weighed down with what is left unsaid. When dinnertime comes around, Solas helps her stand and then walks with her out onto the deck.

She inhales the salt air and her stomach doesn’t immediately churn, which she takes as an excellent sign. The sailors cheer when she arrives with Solas, and she laughs and sits next to Isabela, who makes sure she gets the softest biscuits and best-looking salted pork. Her presence even has Isabela call for ‘the good stuff,’ which means vintage Tevinter red. Miraculously, Ariala keeps all of it down.

During dinner, Solas says, “Vince, James, would you be interested in a game of bridge tonight?”

“Why, so you can lose more money?” one of them cracks, and the sailors burst into laughter. Isabela glances at Ariala and gives her a sly smile. But Solas is unfazed, a small smile on his face as he neatly cuts his pork. The other sailor leans on the table, waving a cracker in the air. “All right, elf, we’ll take your money if you _really_ want. Who’ll be your partner?”

Solas takes a bite of pork, allows the silence to drag on for a few minutes. “Thatcher.”

Murmurs go through the crew. The sailor’s smile disappears, and he glowers. “That’s cheating.”

“Is it?” Solas asks, mildly. “I am still unaccustomed to the game. Thatcher has proven an able guide, and we have yet to play together as a team. Would you deny me a competent teammate when you are sure to win anyway?”

“Fine,” says the other sailor. She doesn’t know if he’s Vince or James. “Tonight. Don’t be late, Solas.”

“Of course.”

The games, Ariala finds, are below deck. She pushes past the hammocks and finds a majority of the crew—the ones who are off-duty, at least—clustered around a variety of surfaces. Isabela is playing Wicked Grace with several other crewmen, using a barrel as a table, but several more sailors are gathered around Solas and Thatcher, who sit across the two sailors from earlier.

Ariala finds a spot close enough where she can watch the game, and Thatcher sees her and immediately hollers for someone to ‘get Her Worship a chair, for Maker’s sake!’ She thanks the man who gets her a chair, as well as Thatcher, who nods and mumbles something all while avoiding her gaze.

She wonders if Solas had really told him that she had killed a dragon with her bare hands, or if he is still thinking about Jader, and that is why he won’t look at her.

The four men agree on a trump card, and the game begins.

Solas and Thatcher win every round.

— ✦ —

When they finally reach Wycome, in the early evening of the eleventh day at sea, an Inquisition scout is waiting for them in the docks. They really _do_ have people all over the world, don’t they?

The scout is a barefaced elf; Ariala can see the slant of her pointed ears underneath her hood. She shifts her weight when she sees Ariala, but her expression does not betray her anxiety. “You shouldn’t be here, Your Worship,” she whispers, once they reach her. “I’ve had to pretend to be human to avoid mobs. They’ve cleared out the entire alienage—”

“Cleared out?” Ariala repeats.

“Killed,” the scout says, voice low. “Inquisition cleaned up the red lyrium in the water, but they blame the elves for the chaos. All of ’em, not just the Dalish. There’ve been lynchings, even of those just passing through.” She eyes the bow at Ariala’s side, wary. “Your weapons won’t help, either, probably.”

Ariala crosses her arms. “I can handle myself.”

The scout ducks her head. “I know you can, Your Worship. Just—be careful, okay?”

“I will. I promise.” She smiles, to reassure the woman. “I’m here to bury my clan. You can take me to their campsite, yes?”

“I—I can, yes, but…” the scout hesitates, mouth pursing. “I don’t think you should, though, Your Worship.” Before Ariala can reply, the scout holds up her hands. “There’s an abomination roaming the camp. Killing anything that moves. It’s why they haven’t burned the bodies yet. They’re waiting until they get some old Templars from Ostwick to help out.”

A moment later, she says, “Your clan—it’s not a pretty sight, m’lady.”

“I figured.” She takes a deep breath. “What’s your name?”

“Myra, Your Worship. But, uh, Nightingale calls me Yarrow.” After a long moment, Myra wrings her hands again, her gaze flickering to the passers-by who have stopped to observe their extended conversation. “I’ll have to find some horses. But—tomorrow, meet me outside the city, and I’ll take you to your clan. I’ve already bought the trees from the arborist, and my partner has them outside the gates. He’ll give us the saplings when we leave for the clan.”

“Thank you, Myra,” says Solas behind her.

She nods. “The Black Duckling is still serving elves, I think,” she says. “Their beds are tick-free and their beef soup is good. Tell them I sent you, they might be more willing to take you in.”

Ariala smiles and thanks her, and Myra disappears into the crowds, blending in seamlessly. Ariala watches her leave, then lifts her hand and pushes back her hood, exposing the points of her ears. It is all of thirty seconds before the humans start to notice—they look at her with surprise, then confusion, then rage. She is undaunted.

Let them see.

Let them know a Dalish elf has come to Wycome.

“Inquisitor,” says Solas, and she makes note of the tension in his back, the way he eyes each and every human that sneers at her.

“I want to see the alienage,” she says. They had died because of her mistake, too, because she believed Leliana’s plan infallible. She owed it to them to see what her pride had wrought.

It takes them two hours to find the alienage. But when they do, it is unmistakable. The gates to the alienage are splintered open and off their hinges, even though the lock is on the human side. The gates had always been for keeping the elves in, not keeping humans out.

Ariala walks through. Half of the buildings are gone, stained foundation stones the only evidence there were ever buildings there at all. More are charred ruins, blackened with soot. There are piles of cold ash, but some bones remain, gleaming in the sun. The air is still, and quiet, and Ariala looks at it all unflinching.

Every building she has seen in Wycome has been made of a rough gray stone. There are no mosaics on the walls, no gardens or fountains, no murals of the sea and no old women selling trinkets. The alienage buildings were made of wood, but under the soot she can make out faded chips of vibrant paint.

She lifts her head, and looks toward the center square. She had been told that all alienages had a tree in the central square, a vhenadahl, but she does not see—

“Oh,” she breathes.

Ariala approaches the stump, which has been cleaved in two, its roots ripped from the soil and left to rot in the sun. She brushes her fingertips against the whorls in the wood, trying to count the rings and failing.

Innocents, killed because she had made the wrong choice.

She had hated Wycome, before, but it had been a weak hatred, faint due to distance and grief. But now it is a visceral thing, a darkly burning fury in the pit of her belly. She pulls away and lifts her left hand, the fingertips of her right hand toying with the edge of her glove. “I should open a rift,” she says, absently, as if discussing the weather. “As big a rift I can manage, and let the demons have their way with this damned city.”

She feels nothing when she says this. She feels no vindication at the thought of demons invading Wycome, no relief in the knowledge that her clan would be avenged. But she does not feel horror, either, when she thinks of demons slaughtering innocent and guilty alike.

She laughs to herself. As if Wycome _has_ innocents within its walls.

Solas sucks in a breath. He looks at her as if he does not recognize her. “You cannot mean that,” he says, sharply.

“And why not?” she asks, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. “Why not? They deserve far worse.” She gestures to the alienage, and her voice raises, nearly becomes a shout. _“Look_ what they did to our people, Solas!” Her hands shake. “My clan will be worse.”

“So you would wreak havoc on a city full of thousands because of the actions of a few?”

“A few?” she shouts back. “You don’t know how many humans did this! Every one of them could have participated in my family’s murder!”

“ _Could_ is the key word there. You are just as ignorant of what truly happened that night as I am. It could have been all of them or it could have been one of them. You would not condemn a city for the actions of one man.” He stares at her, hard, jaw clenching. “That is not you.”

She opens her mouth, but cannot find any words. “I should have left without you in Skyhold,” she finally says, turning on her heel and striding away. “I _knew_ you would do this.”

“Do what?” Solas asks, his own temper rising as he follows her. “Hold you accountable for your words and actions?”

“You killed Wisdom’s murderers!” she retorts.

“That was different—”

She laughs, a bit hysterically. “You’re right!” she says, spinning to face him again. “You’re absolutely right. That was different. Those mages in the Plains—they killed Wisdom by _accident_. Wycome _deliberately_ chose to march on my family and slaughter them. They chose to kill my family, Solas, because they wanted to, not as a consequence of their own incompetence.” She bares her teeth in a snarl.

His expression closes off, and his gaze turns cold. “If you truly believe a city should be condemned for a few humans’ actions, then you are not the woman I thought you were.”

She swallows, unexpectedly stung by his words, but then that awful fury roars to life and she shakes her head, a barb ready on her tongue. “And what kind of woman did you think I was, Solas? Unique? Wise? _Special?_ A rare and marvellous spirit?” He flinches, but does not reply. She clenches her jaw. “Sorry to disappoint you, then.”

As she turns away, he says, “Ariala.”

It’s the first time he’s said her name in two months.

She stops, then turns back to him. Solas steps toward her. His hand moves, as if he wants to reach for her, but then he fists it and it stays by his side. “You are grieving,” he tells her, and she rolls her eyes, but then he says, “I understand. Harden your heart to a cutting edge, and put that pain to good use. But do not let your grief consume you. Please. I have seen men consumed with vengeance borne of grief before, and I would not have you become like them.”

She almost makes a sharp retort—something like _don’t pretend you care_ —but she is suddenly tired, so tired, and so she doesn’t say anything at all. She turns in silence, gaze lifting to examine the lingering streaks of white in the sky as the sun sets.

By this time tomorrow, she'll have buried her clan, and started the vigil to watch over their bodies as they made their way to the Beyond.

— ✦ —

They find the Black Duckling Inn & Tavern tucked into the heart of a network of alleys. It seems to be a former house; the innkeeper’s desk is in the middle of the entryway, and one staircase is directly behind him. To the left of them is a set of stairs that leads to a lowered area, which seems to be the former parlor and dining rooms combined. The area’s been refashioned into something that more resembles a tavern, with small tables, a smaller bar, and some booths.

Ariala and Solas both keep their hoods up as they make their way to the innkeeper. Solas steps in front of Ariala, as they’d discussed, and Ariala keeps her face down as he converses with the man.

“Aye, we have a room for two,” the innkeeper says. “How many nights are you with us?”

“Just one,” says Solas, smoothly. “Myra recommended this establishment.”

“Ah, Myra sent you?” There’s a trace of nervousness in the innkeeper’s voice. Ariala looks up, only to see a bearded man staring at her from the tavern area. The patron’s eyes widen as he sees her vallaslin, and he leans over to whisper to his companion. Ariala looks down, turning her body away.

In the end, they get a room, and the innkeeper says they’re welcome to the tavern’s fare. He will provide the key when they’re ready to turn in for the night.

They order the beef soup and some bread, and Ariala tries to relax, but she can feel people’s gazes on her. She glances down at her hands, splayed out over the tabletop. “How many are looking?”

“At least three,” Solas says, pretending to admire the faded, patterned wallpaper. “Men. Deep in their cups, judging by appearances.”

She nods, and waits for the beef soup. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a waitress bring more ale to the three men who have been watching her. If they start a fight, at least, taking care of them would be no problem.

They get their beef soup, which is actually very good, though she’s not certain that the meat chunks floating inside the broth are actually beef. She’s hungry enough that she finishes it in a few minutes, but afterward she hears the scraping of three separate chairs and stills, glancing up at Solas.

He does not look at her, but he is tense, and she can _feel_ the three drunks’ gaze on her. They stop in front of their little corner booth, and the bravest of them actually leans on the table and looks at her. “What’s a Dalish doing in our city?” he sneers. He’s blond, bearded, and his breath stinks of ale. Half of his words are slurred. “Thought we made it clear to you rats you weren’t welcome.”

A stone settles in the pit of her stomach, but she stares resolutely ahead, fingers gripping her spoon. “Please leave,” she says.

He leans closer, so close that she can smell the ale on his breath, and says, “I’ve killed your kind before. Get out of our city or I’ll do the same t’ you.”

Ariala’s grip on the spoon tightens. “You’ve killed Dalish before?”

Solas looks at her, sharp-eyed, clearly not expecting her to speak. Before he can do anything, though, one of the drunk’s friends laughs. “Helped clean up the scum outside the city!” he says, clapping his blond friend on the back.

“The clan?” Ariala asks, and this time she looks at the drunk, who’s straightened up, a self-satisfied smile on his face, like he believes he’s cowed her. She stares at his face and tastes blood in her mouth. The Well is whispering to her, shadowy phrases of Elvhen she cannot understand, but the fury that has made itself a home inside her has begun consuming her unease. “You helped kill Clan Lavellan?”

Under the table, Solas’s toes press deliberately against her shin. It’s a hard pressure, and a clear warning, but not one she’s inclined to follow. She stares at the drunk who’d admitted to killing members of her family and thinks of the knife at her belt.

The idiot’s smile falters, as if he can sense a nearby predator. “They murdered our Duke an’ poisoned our water, figures we return the favor.”

“How many?” she asks.

“What?”

“How many did you kill?” she repeats, slowly, deliberately, her gaze narrowed.

Solas kicks her under the table. She doesn’t look at him. The blond leans away from her, a bit of nervousness flashing over his expression before he looks back at his yes-men and puffs back up. “Six or seven, by my reckon. And they had their whole clan. You…” he smirks. “You’ll be—”

Ariala stands up. The tavern goes very quiet as she does so, and Solas clears his throat. She faces the drunk directly and grabs a fistful of his shirt. She isn’t strong enough to lift him up, and there’s no nearby surface to slam him against, so she puts on her scariest Inquisitor face.

“If you say one more word,” she tells him, “I will kill you. Do you hear me, shem?”

“Oi!” the innkeeper shouts from the main hallway. “Take it outside!”

One of his friends steps forward and shoves her. Ariala catches herself on the booth, her free hand grabbing the knife at her belt. She ducks a clumsy attempt at a follow-up punch and turns, grabbing the attacker’s wrist and twisting it, pushing it so far up his back she hears a pop as his shoulder dislocates.

The tavern starts to react as the friend wails in pain, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Solas stand. Two different men decide to join the three original idiots. Five of them now.

Outnumbered. But they’re drunk, and she’s the Inquisitor, trained as an assassin by two of the very best in Thedas.

She focuses on the four who didn’t confess to participating in the murder of her clan—within several minutes, all of them are down, some with dislocated limbs and others clutching their groins in agony. She turns to the murderer, who has pressed himself against the wall as if that will make him less visible, staring at his downed friends with wide eyes.

He holds up his hands as she approaches, and Ariala drives her fist into his gut, as hard as she can, gritting her teeth against a scream of rage. He bows over, coughing, and she threads her fingers through his greasy hair, twisting it in her fist. He wails, and she turns to the rest of the patrons. Her hood had been pulled down in the brawl, and her ears and vallaslin are on full display.

She is not cowed. _Let them know a Dalish elf has come to Wycome._

“Anyone else?” she asks. The tavern’s patrons stare at her. She glances down at the murderer, who is cowering now, and starts to head for the door, dragging the man behind her. He follows along, whimpering, and disgust coils in her when she smells the acrid scent of urine.

“You’re pathetic,” she tells him, shoving him outside and into the alley. He stumbles to his knees, too inebriated to even _walk_. Pathetic. She grabs him by the hair again, pulling the knife from her belt.

“You do not deserve a quick death,” she tells him, and the man sobs.

“Inquisitor,” Solas says.

She glances over her shoulder. Solas stands in the doorway of the tavern, silhouetted by the orange light from the inside. She can see several faces—some curious, some horrified, some afraid—watching her in the window.

She turns back to the darkness, presses her knife against the murderer’s throat.

“Ariala, _stop_ ,” Solas says. “You are not a murderer.”

“The Venatori I’ve killed beg to differ.” Her hand shakes.

“Ariala, listen to me and _look_.” Solas takes a breath, and she hears his footsteps as he descends the few stairs separating them. He moves in front of her, ignoring the weeping man kneeling between them. “He is defenseless. You have bested him. This is not a battle, this is you taking out your revenge on a man who does not deserve death for being an idiot.”

“Wisdom’s killers didn’t fight back, either,” she says, her impatience, her fury, rising. “But that didn’t stop you.”

“No,” he agrees, “but killing them did not bring my friend back. Neither will this return your family to you.”

“They won’t come back,” she says. “But they’ll have justice.”

“You think this is justice?” Solas asks. “He has had no trial, no chance to defend himself or explain his actions.”

“There  _is_ no defense he can give, because his actions are _indefensible!_ ” she screams at him.

The silence that follows her words is thunderous. The fury inside her roars, itching for blood, for  _vengeance_ , but she does nothing but glare at Solas. He holds her gaze, and she keeps her knife at the murderer’s throat, blood pulsing in her ears. Pointedly, Solas says, “You gave Erimond and Alexius trials of their own. You allowed them a chance to defend themselves, as you have everyone brought before you. Will you not do the same for this man?”

“P-Please,” the murderer says. “Please, I have a daughter. A baby girl. Please don’t kill me.”

Ariala tightens her grip in his hair and wrenches his head back. His eyes gleam with unshed tears in the lamplight, and his whole body shakes with his fear. She meets the murderer’s gaze and feels nothing but contempt. “There were little girls in my clan, too,” she says. “But that didn’t stop you, did it?”

She slits his throat. Solas steps back, avoiding the spray of blood, and she sheathes her knife as the dead man jerks underneath her hand, his life leaving him in gurgling breaths. When his body goes slack, she kicks him away, lets his corpse slump to the side and lay in the street. Solas watches the man, something unreadable in his gaze, and when he looks at her she meets his eyes unflinchingly.

“Did that help?” he asks, tone acerbic. “Do you feel better now?”

“Did burning Wisdom’s killers alive _help?_ ” she asks, pointedly, her nose scrunching as she sneers. “At least this man got a quick death. It’s more than he deserved.”

Ariala walks back into the Black Duckling, which greets her with absolute silence. She meets the stares of every patron, gazing at them until they look away. A few of the previously occupied tables are now empty. She goes to their little corner booth, where their weapons and bedrolls sit untouched. She slings her bow bag over her shoulder, positions Solas’s bedroll on her back and her bedroll on her front, and moves to leave the inn.

“You— _killed_ him,” someone says, voice breaking. She looks over her shoulder and sees one of the murderer’s friends, face ashen as he looks at her. She steps forward, and the entire tavern takes a step back.

“I am Ariala of Clan Lavellan,” she tells him. His face pales further. “He participated in the slaughter of my family. Of _course_ I killed him.”

“We’ve called the city watch,” says the innkeeper. “They’ll bring you to justice.”

Ariala turns to him, and he shrinks from her gaze. “They are welcome to try.”

— ✦ —

She wakes in the dead of night, her sharp inhale the only break of the room’s quiet. She sits up, examining the dilapidated room they had found themselves housed in for the night.

After she told him that the city watch had been called, Solas had not wanted to find another inn. “They will be searching every inn in the city. We will be seen, and noticed, no matter how discreet an innkeeper we find.”

“So what do you propose?” she’d shot back. “We sleep in the alienage?”

She was being sarcastic, but he had opened his mouth, then closed it, considering. “Provided we find the right location,” he’d admitted, “that idea may actually have merit.”

And so they’d set wards at the broken gates of the alienage, then more by the vhenadahl stump, and had found this standing building. The floors above remained solid, and Solas’s magelight revealed no rot in the wood. However, the staircase to the second floor was gone—only the top two stairs remained, hanging precariously in the air, while the rest of it lay on the ground, hacked to pieces. The furniture had been in a similar state.

She could only imagine what had happened to the people on the other floors.

“They will see the staircase, and assume we would not be here,” Solas had surmised. “The higher we go, the better our chances of not being discovered, because the less likely they will believe us to be in the building.”

The only challenge, then, would be finding a way up.

Eventually, Ariala had knelt, lacing her fingers together and providing a hold for Solas. When he stepped into her hand, she boosted him as quickly as she could. Solas had managed to grab the floorboards and, with a good use of force magic, pulled himself up. She gave him their weapons and bedrolls, then took his hand when he offered it. With another burst of force magic, he had been able to lift Ariala up and pull her over onto the second floor.

A wall separated the hallway from the tenement itself, but the door had been kicked in, and they’d had to step around it when they walked into the room.

She’d glanced around, heart sinking at the sight of toppled furniture—at the reminder that this had been someone’s _home_. There’d been a bed, large enough for two, but neither of them were comfortable sleeping in it. So instead, they’d found the darkest corner in the room and laid their bedrolls there. They’d had to brush away small cobwebs, but there were no bones, at least, and though the half-empty dishes and used silverware were haunting, she was able ignore them, if she turned away.

And now, she is awake, in total darkness, staring at the crib neither of them had noticed on their arrival.

Ariala rolls onto her back, grateful that the floorboards do not creak under her weight, and lifts her left hand. In the darkness, she can _just_ make out the glow of the Anchor through her leather glove. It’s unnoticeable in broad daylight, but here, when clouds conceal the moon and Solas’s magelights have been extinguished, it’s impossible to miss.

She looks again at the bed, at the crib, at the dinner abandoned mid-meal on the table. Silence and dusty furniture is all that remains of the family that lived here. “I’m sorry,” she says, whisper-soft. _You suffered for my mistake._

She stands up and leaves the tenement, entering the hall. There’s a small window at the end of the corridor, though its panes are clouded and a square of glass has been broken. The white vhenadahl stump glows in the moonlight, but even from here, she can see its roots, withered and browning as rot starts to consume what’s left of the dead tree.

_Wycome killed these people because they were born with a pair of pointed ears._

Anger throbs under her breastbone, but it is dull, blunted from overuse in the past three weeks. All it leaves in place is exhaustion. She is tired, so tired, but true sleep has evaded her since she got her grandmother’s letter.

She glances down at her left hand and peels off her glove. The Anchor shines emerald in the night, glinting like metal in the sun when she turns her hand different ways. Though she was not a mage, Solas had taught her to feel for places where the Veil was thin, to better sense where potential rifts could form.

The Veil in the alienage is paper-thin, its presence tingling against her skin. It would be so easy to open a rift in the alienage square, like a knife through water. _So_ easy.

She stands still, waiting, but the dark fury that had been propelling her for most of the journey does not ignite. She thinks of her clan, of the crib, of the fate of the vhenadahl, but only feels—nothing.

“You won’t do it,” a soft voice says behind her, oddly cadenced.

Her shoulders slump, and tears prick the corners of her eyes. “I know,” she whispers back.

Even in this one, simple thing, she fails her people.

“You’re not failing them,” Cole says.

“I feel like I am,” she replies. “If I can’t avenge their deaths, if they can’t have _justice_ —” She stops herself, closing her eyes.

Cole is quiet, but she can feel his gaze on her. “She doesn’t want you like this,” he tells her, and she covers her eyes, fresh tears threatening to fall at the mention of her grandmother. “Harsh, hurting, you’re cruel when you’re angry.” She clenches her jaw and doesn’t reply. Cole steps closer, and she can feel the languid heat of him at her side. “You can hug me, if you like. Varric says it helps.”

Her eyes open. She turns to him, pulling him into an embrace. He is stiff in her arms, unyielding and still.

“Cole, you have to hug me back,” she whispers against his shirt.

“Oh. Okay.” His arms raise, awkwardly draping themselves around her. She laughs despite herself, and it lifts some of the heaviness weighing on her heart. His is a comforting warmth, and she listens to his heartbeat, steady and grounding.

She hadn’t thought he would have a heartbeat.

“That’s the song,” he tells her. “It’s quieter in me.”

“I don’t know what that means,” she replies. Cole starts to fidget, and she pulls away. “Thank you for the hug.”

“It helped,” Cole replies.

“It did,” she agrees. “Why aren’t you at Skyhold, Cole?”

“You needed me more,” he replies. “The barn cat’s had kittens. Soft and scared, seeking mother’s milk. She will let you pet them when you get back.”

Ariala smiles. “I’d like that.”

Cole regards her for several moments, silent for so long she becomes uncomfortable. Ariala turns back to the window, but then Cole says, “He hurts, an old pain from before, when everything sang the same.”

Ariala blinks, looking at Cole over her shoulder. “Who?”

“Solas,” Cole says, simply. His eyes are wide, childlike in their earnestness. “You’re real, and it means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can’t. They sleep, masked in a mirror, hiding, hurting, and to wake them—”

“Inquisitor?” Solas calls out, voice a little muffled. She turns and sees him emerge from the open doorway, a magelight hovering over his shoulder. He sees Cole and his expression closes, gaze hardening as he shifts his weight, squaring his shoulders. “Cole, my friend. Welcome.”

A beat of awkward silence follows. Then Cole takes a breath and says, “Stop. You are perfect exactly as you are. But then you turned away. Why?”

_Oh, no._

Solas stares at her, not Cole. “I had no choice.”

“Of course you had a choice!” she snaps, frustration riling up within her. She closes her mouth on reflex, pressing her fingertips against her mouth. Gods, what terrible timing. She hadn’t been ready to confront Solas in Skyhold, and she certainly isn’t ready now.

“She feels her face, marked, marred without malice.”

“Cole—” she starts. He turns to her.

“You didn’t know!” he replies, agitated. He looks back at Solas. “She thinks it's why you walked away!”

“Cole, I would rather not discuss this right now,” she says, quietly.

That brings him up short. He ducks his head, the brim of his hat covering his face. “I’m sorry.”

“It was my doing, not yours,” Solas tells her. “I made a selfish mistake. The blame is mine and mine alone. Let that be enough.”

Hurt blooms in her chest, so painful she cannot breathe. “You think being with me was a mistake?” she finally manages.

But of course he did—he’d been telling her so all along. _We shouldn’t. Not here. I apologize. The kiss was… impulsive, and ill-considered. It would be kinder in the long run._

She’d just ignored his warnings.

Solas does not reply, but his shoulders are stiff, and that is all the answer she needs.

Stupid. She was so  _stupid._

Ariala looks down, fighting back tears and furious that she still _has_ tears for him. Why did she even bother?

“You really don’t let _anyone_ see under that polite mask you wear, do you?” she asks, _sneers_ , reeling and hurt.

Solas does not look away from her. His reply is quiet and devastating. “You saw more than most.”

It would have hurt less if he’d struck her.

Cole opens his mouth, but she touches his shoulder. She is in no mood to continue this conversation. “It’s all right, Cole,” she lies, giving him a shaky smile that must appear as forced as she knows it is. “We’re all right. Go back to Skyhold. They need you there.”

“But you need me more,” he replies, miserably.

“You cannot heal this, Cole,” Solas says, so gently her heart hurts. “Please. Let it go.”

“We can talk more when I get back to Skyhold,” she tells Cole.

“Promise?” he asks. She remembers how Varric had told him about pinky promises, how sacred they were, and lifts up her hand. They clasp pinkies and she smiles.

“Promise.”

She looks back at Solas, who watches her, impassive. When she looks back, Cole is gone. She sighs, then pushes past Solas to get to their bedrolls. She does not say a word as she settles down and lies with her back to him.

She stares at the empty crib until she falls asleep.

She dreams of a suffocating darkness that creeps up her body, whispering words she cannot understand with a thousand hissing voices. She fights back, clawing it away from her nose, from her throat, from her mouth. She only sucks in a mouthful of stale air, like when she had first approached the Well and it had asked her _why are you here?_

“What are you saying?” she gasps, and the darkness recedes, leaving her gasping on a tiled floor. She does not realize the tiles form a golden-eyed dragon until a thousand voices reply with the power of one, clear and sharp in her ear.

_Unworthy._

— ✦ —

A shrill noise wakes her. She startles, inhaling sharply when she feels a hand on her arm. “The wards,” Solas whispers in her ear. “The city watch is in the alienage.” The piercing sound continues, unabating, until Solas makes a gesture and the silence consumes them once more. She sits up and moves back, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

It’s almost dawn. Myra will be outside the city soon, waiting for them.

But first—they have to deal with the city watch. She hears the door splinter downstairs, and heavy boots on the floor. “I placed an enchantment over us,” Solas whispers, lips pressed against her ear. She nods, even as she reaches for her bow and arrows. It takes her twenty seconds to string her bow and notch an arrow, even as Solas continues speaking. “They will be disinclined to pay us any great attention, provided we do not move from this spot.”

Ariala lifts her bow and aims for the splintered door.

“They’re not here,” someone says below.

“How do you know?”

“The staircase is gone. They couldn’t have reached the second floor. Too high up for knife-ears.”

 _They_. The watch was looking for Solas, too. She glances at him from the corner of her eye, but all of his attention is on the tenement entrance. He’s tense, shoulders stiff, anticipating an attack. Her arm starts to shake with the strain of keeping the bowstring taut.

“Well, we should just be sure—”

A snort. “If _you_ want to try to get up there, Hoster, be my fuckin’ guest. But we have knife-ears to catch, and I’m not going to waste my time searching abandoned buildings.”

Several moments pass, and then the door shuts, and she hears boots on the streets outside. She exhales, lowering her bow and closing her eyes. After several minutes, she twists and lifts herself a few inches, just enough to see through the window. She watches the city watchmen spread out, all of them going down different streets.

“They’re searching the alienage,” she whispers to Solas. “We’ll have to wait until they leave.”

He nods and tilts his head back, resting it against the wall. Ariala keeps her bow strung, just in case, but she puts it in her lap and allows herself to relax, slumping so that she is below the window, out of sight once more.

“You don’t happen to know your way out of the city from here, do you?” she asks, after several moments of silence. Solas shakes his head, and she sighs. “Damn. Me neither.”

He huffs a laugh. “That may pose a problem.”

She laughs too. “Yeah. A little bit.” Her smile fades as she waits for him to point out the obvious—that the city watch would not be looking for her had she not killed one of her clan’s murderers—but the reprimand never comes.

“We could attempt to leave while they are searching the rest of the alienage,” Solas muses, “but that would require discretion and an extraordinary amount of luck.”

She looks at their gear: two bedrolls, Solas’s bag and staff, her bow and quiver. They’d have to haul ass from the moment they left the building to the instant they reached the gate—not easy with everything they’d been carrying. And they would be out in the open, too. Pre-dawn darkness or not, they’d be easily spotted by sharp eyes.

She runs her hand through her hair and utters a soft curse. “I don’t want to wait ’til nightfall,” she says.

“Agreed.”

“Myra is waiting for us.”

“That is also true.”

“Can you just—I don’t know. Make us invisible with the Fade?”

Solas looks at her, bemused. “That is _not_ how the Fade works. Or magic, for that matter.” But then his expression goes distant, eyes narrowed like when he is confronting something that puzzles him, working it out until it makes sense. “I _suppose_ … hm.”

“What?”

“I know a simple charm, one that draws less attention to those under its influence. It is meant for a single person in large crowds, however, and I do not know how much it will work for our situation.”

“It’s the best we’ve got,” Ariala says. “And, you know, if worst comes to worst, you can just create an ice wall and block them. Plus we aren’t wearing plate armor, and they probably aren’t used to chasing people through the streets—”

She’s rambling, trying to convince herself that their flight in broad daylight across an open square might work. She closes her mouth, then opens it again. “But the people will try to stop us, probably, and we could spend hours trying to get out of the city because we don’t know the _way_ out—”

“Inquisitor.”

“Right. You’re right. We’ve fought literal armies of undead, we can handle a few angry guys, no problem.”

“I would not classify the _entire_ city watch as ‘a few angry guys’—”

Ariala sucks in a breath and gets to her feet. “Okay, let’s go, let’s do this. We’ve got this. Totally got this. What could go wrong?”

Everything, apparently.

After they get down to the ground floor of the tenement building and Solas casts his charm, they have no other option but to sprint across the square. They don’t even reach halfway before a voice calls out “Oi! The elves!” and an arrow whizzes past her ear. Ariala flinches away instinctively, but Solas grabs her wrist and keeps running.

She feels the familiar wash of his magic fall over her, and the next arrow bounces off his barrier harmlessly.

They reach the gate and Ariala turns, resting her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. A full contingent of the guard—twenty men or so—are sprinting toward them.

“Ice wall?” she asks, and Solas drops his staff, lifting both his hands. After several moments, ice begins to form along the baseline of the alienage gate, creeping up the stone and building up until a thick sheen of blue-green ice covers the alienage gate from floor to portcullis. The cries of the men on the other side are slightly muffled by the ice, but she can make out ‘knife-ears’ and curses and even a _I told you so!_ —followed immediately by a _shut up, Hoster_.

Solas lowers his hands, breathing hard. “That should delay them for a little while,” he says. Ariala turns and sees a crowd beginning to gather further down the street, drawn by the guards’ shouting.

“We need to go,” she tells him, and they disappear into a side alley before the crowd can reach them. However, it does not take long for the populace to deduce what’s happened, and as they run through side streets and duck through shadowed alleys, a cry begins to go up through the city.

Their luck runs out when they turn into another alley, just off a main street where a fair is taking place, and their route is blocked by a crowd of a dozen or so people. “No further, murderers,” says one man, fire in his eyes.

The air turns strangely thin, like when she’s on Skyhold’s ramparts, and her ears pop at the same moment all of the humans are knocked flat on their backs, collapsing like a house of cards. Solas sways, and instinct has her moving to his side, supporting him as he leans on her, flushed.

“Gods, I love magic,” she says, panting, and his laugh is a faint huff. The next instant his smile is gone, and he takes a deep, steadying breath.

“We should leave at once,” he says. She nods, and they resume their flight, pushing past the people who had been drawn by the shouting. To Wycome’s credit, its citizens are neither slow to react nor idiots; most of them realize that the elves running through the farmer’s market are probably the ones on the run from the watch.

Solas has to raise two more massive ice walls before they can even find a street without angry humans. Ariala supports his weight as he catches his breath, and once he nods to her, she gestures to an inn down the street.

“Go ask the innkeeper for directions out of the city,” she says, unhooking a bag of coins from her belt and tossing it to him. Solas inhales, straightens his back, and Ariala stays in the shadows as he disappears inside.

When he returns, it’s without the money. “We are on the wrong side of the city,” Solas says, unfolding a small piece of paper with a hastily-drawn map. There are streets, labeled in barely-legible handwriting, and an _X_ labeled _where you are_ and an _X_ labeled _the exit_. The two Xs are on the opposite side of the map.

“ _Shite._ ”

“Agreed,” says Solas. “We must make haste. I cannot perpetually wall off the city to prevent pursuers.”

“Okay,” Ariala says, starting to follow him as he goes back the way they came. She fixes her hood, then says, “So, uh, you didn’t give the innkeep _all_ of that money, did you?”

Solas is silent.

“Gods, _Solas_ —”

“I was a bit rushed,” he bites out.

Josephine is going to kill her.

They don’t have any more trouble until they’re a couple of streets away from the gate. As they’re hurrying down an alley, she hears the unmistakable _clank_ of men in full armor marching down the street. She skids to a stop, grabbing Solas and wrenching him back just as two city watchmen pass them.

She thinks they’re safe, until the clanking stops and one of them asks, “What is it?”

“That alley,” the watchman says. “Thought I saw something. Can we go check?”

_Shite. Shite shite shite!_

“Sure, Hoster,” his companion says. “You were right last time.”

“Well, it’s nice to be appreciated.”

Ariala straightens her hood and pulls Solas back, until her back collides with the cold stone wall. Hands shaking, she lifts her bag strap up and over her head, dropping it and her pack to the ground. Solas does the same, whispering a spell that makes the air shimmer around the items. Though their bodies conceal some of their gear, there’s no telling what they could see.

They won’t have the cover of darkness to help them this time.

Ariala looks at Solas, who is regarding the mouth of the alley with something like blind panic in his eyes, and makes a split second decision. She fists her hands in his tunic and pulls him forward, one hand moving to cup the back of his head as her other positions his hands on her hips.

Solas stiffens, eyes widening, looking for all the world like a cornered animal. “What are you doing?” he hisses, sharp and panicked.

She opens her mouth, eyes falling to his lips, but cannot bring herself to close the distance, even for this scheme. _Mistake_ , a voice whispers in the back of her mind _, just a selfish mistake._ Something sour curdles within her.

“Just play along,” she replies, and brings Solas’s head down to her throat. The guards stop at the mouth of the alley just as she turns her face away from their direction, takes a breath, and _moans_.

Her cheeks flush at once, because it’s the loudest, most exaggerated sound she’s ever made in her life. Solas’s hands flex on her hips, fingers spasming, and though he is still rigid against her, he presses closer, so close she can feel his eyelashes flutter on her skin. His heart is beating wildly, and she swallows bile as she lifts a leg and does her best to sling it over his hip.

He does not try to help her at all, and she doesn’t know whether to curse him or thank him.

“ _Oh_ ,” she gasps, thinking _mistake mistake mistake_. She drops her hand from cupping the back of his head to drape across his shoulders, fingers fisting in his tunic. “Oh, Maker, _yes—_ ”

“Maker’s balls,” says the guardsman, clearly embarrassed. “Just lovers here, Hoster.”

“Damn. Let’s go.”

The very moment their footsteps fade, Solas wrenches away from her, as if he’d been burned. He says nothing as he collects his things, and Ariala does not look at him as she adjusts her cloak and straps her bow bag to her back. “Whoever has been accompanying Hoster on patrols of late,” Solas says, dryly, “we shall have to thank him someday.”

Ariala swallows and says nothing. She had doubted the sincerity of his choice, based on how he looked at her after Crestwood. She had continued to nurture a small flame in her heart, a fragile hope that he would change his mind and come back to her, that they could resume what they’d shared as if they’d never been apart.

She’s never been so wrong. The knowledge is humiliating, and leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

There is a long pause before Solas sighs. “Inquisitor—” he starts.

“We’re not talking about it,” she says. “Let’s go.”

She feels his eyes on her as she walks away, but she refuses to look back.


	2. dareth shiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, Myra points toward two hills in the distance, and says, “There. Over those hills, in the valley. That’s where your clan is, Your Worship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy crap, an update in less than a year??
> 
> it's because i feast on your tears. ಠ◡ಠ in all seriousness, though, the response to this fic has blown me away!! i'm so glad everyone seems to be enjoying the angst. hope you like this chapter just as much. much thanks to my beta playwithdinos, who found not one, not two, but THREE sentences that just cut off, never to be finished until she pointed them out to me.
> 
> this chapter is the only one that specifically references suicidal thoughts, but also has depictions of bodily decay, graphic depictions of violence, allusions to depression, etc. as my darling beta said, "if you cried last chapter then HOO BOY, MY FRIEND, YOU ARE IN FOR A RIDE." enjoy! :)

Once they reach the gate to the city, it’s already late afternoon, almost early evening. There are two guards standing at the gate, stopping everyone who is passing through. “Shit,” Ariala hisses between her teeth. She can see Myra beyond the gate, pacing back and forth, accompanied by a man who is lazily cleaning his nails. One of the horses is hitched to a cart, which is full of saplings.

Myra looks up, face pinched in agitation, and sees them as they withdraw to the shadows, far from the immediate notice of the guards. She turns to her partner, who looks at them in turn, and a few seconds later pushes away from the cart and approaches the guards. He draws them into conversation, and somehow manages to get their backs turned. Myra gestures to them furiously, and they need no more encouragement to leave the shadows and cross the space.

Ariala feels a weight lift from her shoulders when they walk out of Wycome.

“We were supposed to meet at dawn,” Myra hisses. “Where have you two _been_?”

“We were busy,” Ariala replies. “Thank you for waiting.”

Uncertainty crosses Myra’s expression. “The city’s up in arms about you here, Your Worship. Is it true what they say? You killed someone?”

“He told me he participated in the slaughter of my clan,” Ariala says, flatly. “I would do it again with no regrets.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen for a moment, then she nods, changing the subject. “Well, we’d better get going.”

Myra mounts the horse carrying the saplings, and she and Solas take the other two. “Will your partner be all right?” Ariala asks, even as she urges her horse forward. Myra snorts.

“He could talk a Revered Mother out of her robes. He’ll be fine.”

That’s enough for her.

They ride thirty minutes from Wycome. At last, Myra points toward two hills in the distance, and says, “There. Over those hills, in the valley. That’s where your clan is, Your Worship.”

Ariala does not reply, but she clicks her tongue and urges her horse into a gallop. Solas calls after her, but his voice is soon lost to the wind. She crests the hill and her horse rears back as the wind changes, bringing a stench so potent it makes her eyes water.

Ariala raises her shirt to cover her nose and mouth, involuntary tears streaming from her eyes. She blinks to clear them, and her heart sinks at the sight of scorched and broken aravels below. Only a few of their homes had been spared; the rest are blackened husks of curved wood, their masts splintered and fallen to the ground, sails torn. One of them is intact, but on its side. Even from this distance, she can see the forms of her family’s bodies, left to rot where they had fallen.

She swallows, fighting her nausea, and sends her horse down the hill.

She dismounts beside the small statue of Fen’Harel, where the first body is. There isn’t much left to identify them—clumps of brown hair, still clinging to a scalp, and blackened, exposed bones. Ariala moves on.

Everyone she recognizes, she names. Ellowen. Rhonan. Davhalla. Adhlean, and his brother Anuon. Eolas, impaled on his own sword. Shenuvun, and his love Mira, fallen a few feet away from each other. Nausea churns her gut, but no actual bile rises in the back of her throat. She has seen too much death, killed too many men, for this to affect her so.

Ariala looks up and stops, lifting her hand to her mouth, eyes stinging as she sees the body of her closest childhood friend.

Vunora had fallen face-down, felled by the two crossbow bolts in her back, but her hand is outstretched, reaching for the corpse of a babe not far away. Its head is dashed open, and its blood had made a black mark on the grass. Ariala falls to her knees, swallowing hard as she undoes the child’s swaddling and carefully wraps it around its body, hiding its head. Once he is fully covered, she raises Vunora’s stiff arm and tucks her infant son underneath.

She hadn’t even known Vunora had _had_ a child.

An aravel door opens, and Ariala looks up at the disturbance, immediately going still at who she sees.

“Mamaela?” she asks, hardly daring to believe her eyes.

Her grandmother stands in the aravel doorway, clutching a small practice staff, and the first thing she sees is Ariala. She descends the aravel steps, but then she falters.

“Ariala?” she asks, uncertain. “Da’vhenan?”

Ariala starts to sob. She nods, unable to stop herself from dropping her bags and sprinting across the field into her grandmother’s arms. Deshanna sways at the impact, but then she is clinging to Ariala with equal fierceness. “It is you,” she whispers, breath hitching, and Ariala nods into her shirt, shoulders shaking with the force of her relief. Deshanna pulls back, holding Ariala’s face between her hands. Tears stream down her face. “I am not dreaming?”

“No,” Ariala croaks. Her grandmother’s hands lower, squeezing at her shoulders as if to test their reality. “I got your letter. I—I came as soon as I could.”

“Oh, my dearest one,” her grandmother says, her thumbs stroking Ariala’s cheeks. “I—” Her shoulders slump, and she pulls away, lifting a hand to her eyes. Ariala draws her back in, closing her eyes and hugging Deshanna tight.

She hears hoofbeats behind her, and pulls away for a moment to see Solas and Myra approaching the edge of the camp.  Deshanna stiffens, but Ariala takes her hand. “It’s okay,” she soothes. “They’re with me.”

Myra stops and dismounts soon after her horse passes the small statue of Fen'Harel. She stumbles a few paces away and vomits. Solas only observes the slaughter with a clinical, detached eye. After several moments he dismounts and crosses to them, careful to avoid the bodies of her clan.

“Grandmother,” Ariala says, “this is Solas. He’s…” Solas looks at her, expression betraying nothing, and she swallows. Behind him, Myra straightens, wiping at her mouth with the back of her glove. Ariala looks back to her grandmother. “He’s a member of the Inquisition. He came with me to help bury the clan.”

“Solas,” says Deshanna, extending her hand. “Andaran atish’an, ma falon. I am sorry your visit is not under better circumstances.”

Solas blinks, but then inclines his head and shakes her hand. Deshanna wipes at her eyes and turns to Myra. “And you are…?”

“Myra, ma’am.” They shake hands, and Myra glances at the cart. “Uh, there are saplings in there. For the graves. Her Worship wanted them.”

Deshanna’s brow furrows. “Her Worship?”

“It’s what they call me,” Ariala says, shifting uncomfortably when her grandmother looks at her. “Another title, an alternative to Inquisitor.”

“Ah.” Deshanna’s face softens with a quiet grief. “You brought saplings?”

“Of course I did,” Ariala replies. Deshanna touches her cheek with a small smile and takes a deep breath, steadying herself. After several moments, she turns back to Solas and Myra.

“Forgive me, Your Worship,” Myra starts, looking queasy, “but I’ll be needing to get back to the city soon. Make sure my partner didn’t get himself killed while I was gone.”

Ariala nods. “Thank you, Myra. For everything.”

Myra nods, then dismounts, carefully avoiding the bodies as she moves to unhitch the cart from her horse. Ariala lifts her hand in a final wave, a gesture that Myra returns. After a moment, she turns her horse and heads back toward Wycome, urging her mount into a gallop.

Ariala watches her leave as she says, quietly, “Mamaela, we were told that there was an abomination at the camp. The city’s sent for some former Templars to kill it. Do you know…?”

Her grandmother exhales, and a lone tear escapes her eye. She brushes it away. “Mahanon.”

“No,” she breathes. “ _No_.”

Sweet Mahanon, who preferred playing with his friends over magic lessons, who valued healing and peace over violence and arguments. She had left before he’d gotten his vallaslin. Once he came of age, he would’ve been Deshanna’s second. And now—

She covers her mouth and tries to breathe.

Deshanna closes her eyes. “It is… _he_ is well when it is just the two of us. When he is with someone of the clan. But when there is an outsider… the demon…” She presses a hand to her eyes. “He killed Ellowen’s sweetheart. The girl had brought shovels for the graves and—” She shudders and does not continue. After several long moments, she says, “I have not had the heart to free him.”

Ariala looks at Solas. He is walking among her fallen family, his hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable. Every so often he kneels and closes someone’s eyes. A lump wells in her throat and she looks back at her grandmother. “Then I will do it, Mamaela. Do you know where he is now?”

She shakes her head. “The demon goes where he pleases. He has been enjoying the river of late, but… I do not know. He may return for your friend while you are gone.”

“Solas can handle himself,” she says. “He’ll help you with the graves until I return.”

Deshanna lifts a hand and cups the back of Ariala’s neck, pulling her head down and pressing their foreheads together. Ariala inhales, her hand curling around her grandmother’s wrist, and closes her eyes. “Strike true, dearest one,” says Deshanna. “He has suffered enough.”

Ariala nods, sniffing, and pulls away. Deshanna returns to the aravel, and as Ariala straps on her quiver and lifts the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she sees Solas, cradling a toddler in his arms. A little girl, pierced through with crossbow bolts. Ariala doesn’t recognize her—there had been three infant girls in the clan when she’d left for the Conclave.

She’d forgotten their names. The realization shames her.

Solas is in the process of removing the last bolt when she reaches him. He is whispering something under his breath, and she waits until he goes silent to speak. “Solas?”

He turns his head, shoulders slumped, and she kneels beside him. His expression is utterly wretched. Heartbroken. “Do you know her parents?” he asks. “I would return her to them.”

Ariala shakes her head. “There were three baby girls when I left. She could be any one of them. We’ll have to ask my grandmother.”

He nods, turning back to the girl child with a heavy sigh. Ariala reaches out and rests her hand on his shoulder. He stiffens, and she presses her thumb against a knot of tense muscle in his shoulder until it gives way under her touch. It’s an old gesture, one she remembers doing frequently after she’d found him hunched over a book or five in the rotunda.

“You comfort me, yet this was _your_ family,” he tells her, voice quiet.

“A boy in our clan was possessed during the attack,” she tells him, pulling away. “He’s the abomination Myra told us about. I’m going to find him.” After a long pause, she asks, “Is there a way to free him without killing him?”

“Not unless the demon willingly releases its hold on the boy, or we have ready access to a massive amount of lyrium and blood magic.”

She looks to the sky, blinking rapidly to clear her eyes. “Of course not,” she whispers. She takes a steadying breath, wiping at the moisture under her eyes. “Well. Apparently the demon only surfaces if he sees someone not of the clan.”

His jaw clenches, but he nods. “Your safety and that of my grandmother’s is what matters most to me,” she continues, and he looks at her fully for the first time. Ariala stares back, then takes a steadying breath.  “But—if he comes to camp while I’m gone—don’t kill him. That duty falls to us, as his clan.”

After a moment, he nods again. “My grandmother is getting shovels,” she says, and when she looks up, Deshanna is making her way to the two of them, two shovels in her hands. “If you can help her with the graves and saplings until I return…”

“Of course.”

She nods. “Okay.”

They watch each other for several heartbeats, then Ariala swallows and stands. She adjusts her bag’s strap on her shoulder, then starts for the forest.

It takes her minutes to find his trail. Mahanon is— _was_ —better suited for healing, not hunting; he still does not know how to cover his tracks. She finds footprints in the underbrush, and broken bush stems, and follows them to a bubbling creek.

A boy of eleven sits on the creekbank, bare feet in the water. When he looks up, his face is bare, naked as a babe’s, painful in its reminder of his youth. He doesn’t see her, hidden in underbrush as she is, but she sees him, and her heart breaks all over again. Her hand shakes when she reaches for her bow and pulls it from her bag.

Mahanon looks down, but an instant later his head snaps back, and when he looks back at her hiding spot his eyes are bright orange. “Show yourself,” he growls—his voice is gravelly, that of a grown man, not a boy—and he rises to his feet. The grass under his feet withers and blackens, smoldering as if burned. His clothes are more rags than proper garments.

 _Rage_ , she thinks. _Oh, Mahanon._

She lowers her bow to the ground and steps out from her hiding place. “Mahanon,” she says, softly. “Mahanon, it’s me, Ariala. I left two years ago, to help the clan. Do you remember me?”

The demon’s brow quirks, and after a moment that feels like hours, the strange light fades from his eyes, replaced with a familiar brown. Ariala’s expression crumples, and he takes a step forward. “Ariala?” he asks. “You came back?”

She nods, not trusting herself to speak, but when he runs to her, she holds him tight and squeezes her eyes shut. She kisses the top of his head, and feels his own tears soak into her tunic. The dagger at her side is an unwelcome weight.

“Are you here to kill me?” Mahanon asks, voice soft. “Because of my friend?”

Ariala pulls away, cupping his face between her hands. “The demon is _not_ your friend, Mahanon,” she tells him.

He pulls away, face twisting. “Yes he is!” he shouts. “He kept me alive! He killed some of the bad men who killed our family! He’s—he’s been teaching me magic, too, so I can go to Wycome and _kill_ every last shemlen—”

“Mahanon,” she says, interrupting him. She kneels, grasping his arms. “Mahanon, listen to me. The demon does not want to help you. Demons never do. Do you understand? There has been enough violence here. There’s been enough death.”

Even as she says the words, they sound hollow to her own ears. Mahanon shakes his head, and he starts to shake. When the fit passes and his eyes open, pinpricks of orange dwell in his irises. She releases Mahanon and leans back, wary.

“Do not lie to him, girl,” the demon says in a chilling voice, lips stretching back into an eerie smile. “I can give him what you cannot. What no one else can.”

“And what is that?” she asks, eyes narrowing.

The demon’s smile widens. “Vengeance.”

“What vengeance can a little boy accomplish?” she asks. “No. Release him, and take me instead. My wrath is much more suitable for you.”

The smile vanishes. The coals in his eyes burn a little hotter, a little brighter, and the demon grabs her chin with uncomfortably warm fingers. It studies her face in silence, and her heart begins to race under its scrutiny.

“So you can reveal me to your Dreamer friend, and have him kill me before you slept?” it asks. “I think not.” Ariala goes very, very still, acutely aware of the knife at her hip. The demon cocks its head at her. “No. I think I will kill you instead.”

The creature wearing Mahanon’s face lifts a hand, and a bloom of fire unfurls in his hand. Ariala jerks back in anticipation of an attack, but it never comes. The flame sputters, then dies, as Mahanon’s body starts to convulse and he falls to his knees, fingertips curling in the dirt. The demon looks up, eyes orange and smoking, and he snarls, “ _Harellan_. You would kill one of your own?”

“You killed Mahanon when you took over his body,” she says, unsheathing her knife.

Mahanon’s eyes turn brown an instant before she slits his throat.

She is too slow to stop herself, and some part of her shuts down when she sees the red slash bloom across his skin.

He gapes at her, one hand instinctively grasping at his open throat. Ariala drops her knife and falls to her knees, crawling toward him. Mahanon stares at her, wide-eyed and tearful, and her hands shake as she pulls him against her body, holding him close. “I’m here,” she whispers into his hair. “I’m here, Mahanon, I won’t leave you. You were so brave, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

He jerks in her hold, gurgling. She can feel his blood soaking her tunic and breeches and the skin underneath, but she maintains her embrace, stroking his hair and making soothing sounds until his body goes still and his overheated flesh cools. She turns her head and presses a lingering kiss to his temple, eyes squeezing shut.

 _He was not Mahanon, not really_ , she tells herself, but it is a dull, unconvincing thought.

After several minutes, she pulls away from the one-sided embrace, and sets him down on the charred grass. She smoothes his hair out of his face and closes his eyes.

He looks peaceful, as if he were merely sleeping.

Ariala does not feel as she washes his body, as she redresses him and smoothes his hair from his face. She does not feel as she rinses his blood off of her blade. She does not feel as she lifts him and carries him back to the camp.

She does not feel anything, except a suffocating numbness that has grown increasingly familiar to her.

She is so tired.

She smells the valley before she sees it—the acrid, oppressive stench of death. A single grave is in progress when she breaks the treeline. Her grandmother is the first to see her and Mahanon. Deshanna shakes her head, just slightly, and starts toward them at a walk, then breaks into a run. Ariala keeps walking, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Ariala,” Deshanna says when she reaches them, voice cracking.

Ariala does not look away from the horizon. _If I look at him, I will break._ Solas emerges from the grave, clothes dirty and sweat shining on his brow, but his expression of confusion is replaced with somber understanding when he sees them. Ariala clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Please take him,” she hears Deshanna tell Solas. Ariala opens her eyes to see Solas extending his arms, slow, uncertain. She gives Mahanon to him, and lets her hands dangle uselessly by her sides. Solas turns in silence, and Mahanon’s hair, wild curls of deep brown, spills over his arm.

 _It wasn’t Mahanon,_ she tells herself.  _It wasn’t._

“It was still Mahanon, Mamaela,” she whispers, voice breaking.

Her grandmother grabs her chin and forces Ariala to look at her. “There will be time for mourning later,” she says, gently. “But now, Solas and I will give the dead what they are owed. And _you_ will go bathe. There are oils and cloths in my aravel.”

Ariala nods, silent, and watches Solas carry Mahanon away. “Da’vhenan,” Deshanna says, firmly. “Now.”

Ariala turns and trudges to her grandmother’s aravel. She stops to grab her bedroll and pack, and has to step over several bodies to do so. Once she reaches the aravel, she climbs up the few steps to the door, and when she opens it, the scent of blood and herbs overpowers all else except the death outside. She closes the door and rests her forehead against the wood.

When she has the strength to turn around, it is just as cramped, and colorful, as she remembers. The layout is just as she remembers. Two bunk beds are built into the walls on either side of her, and straight ahead is a mattress lying atop a cabinet containing three pull-out square drawers. Several colorful blankets are folded and neatly placed over a variety of furs, and there is a smaller trunk with several trinkets straight to her left. That’s where Deshanna had always kept her healing supplies.

Ariala turns and stops when she sees what had been placed on the trunk; a wooden bowl, filled with a white paste that had been tinged pink with blood. Ariala lifts it with careful hands and takes a long, deep sniff.

Elfroot. Comfrey root. A little of prophet’s laurel. When she touches it, the paste is thick and greasy, and her stomach drops.

This is a paste to draw infection from a diseased wound.

 _Mamaela,_ she thinks. She almost goes right back outside, but her grandmother has lived for the two weeks it took for her to get here. She would ask about it tonight, at the vigil. But for now, the dead came first.

They had waited in the Beyond long enough.

Ariala sets aside the paste and opens the trunk, where an empty metal water pitcher and several small bowls sit. She takes a breath and goes to the basket within the trunk, which holds several half- or mostly-empty bottles of oil. She finds rose oil, contained in a bottle made of amber glass, and grabs the pitcher, bowl, several cloths, and a change of everything from her bedroll. 

Her old clothes will have to be burned. Even if they were salvageable, she never wants to wear them again.

When she emerges from the aravel, a basket containing all of her supplies perched on her hip, she looks at neither her grandmother nor Solas as she turns and leaves for the creek, supplies in hand and her bow bag strap slung across her shoulder.

The creek is only ankle-deep, but she does not need a tub of steaming water or a green paste to put on her face to get clean. Ariala begins to strip out of her clothing, ignoring the pain of peeling the bloodsoaked fabric from her skin. Her breastband is also stained with Mahanon’s blood, so she removes that, too, and peels off her leathers and her footwraps until she is covered only by her smalls. She strings her bow and sets it aside, leaning it against a boulder that provides her a modicum of privacy.

She bathes as she had been taught as a girl. She dunks the rag in creekwater, wrings it out, and begins to wipe Mahanon’s blood from her body. She starts with her face, then her arms. Pink water runs down her throat and between her breasts in small rivulets.

Even when her skin is clear of red, when she is shivering from the amount of creekwater she has doused herself with, she does not feel clean. She scrubs until her brown skin flushes, until she feels her face go raw, but even then she does not stop.

She can still feel Mahanon’s blood on her skin, so she scrubs harder.

She needs to be _clean—_

She hears footsteps behind her, and she stops, tensing. She recognizes the gait, though, and relaxes as her grandmother approaches her. Deshanna does not move until Ariala has put on a fresh breastband, and then she kneels and places a hand over Ariala’s. Ariala swallows and drops her hands, laying them in her lap. “You should be helping Solas,” she whispers.

“He assured me he needed no additional assistance,” Deshanna says. Her fingers curl around Ariala’s hand. “You did the right thing.”

Ariala inhales, and tears prick the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice cracking. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when the clan needed me—”

She starts sobbing, then, so hard that her shoulders shake. Deshanna makes a sound and puts a hand on her cheek, pulling her down until Ariala buries her face in her grandmother’s shoulder and weeps. “It was not your fault,” Deshanna soothes, one hand stroking her hair. Suddenly Ariala feels like a child again, thirteen and wide-eyed and scared.

“It _was_ ,” Ariala says, her tears garbling her words. “I—I—”

She makes a low, wounded noise, and clutches at her grandmother, fighting the wail that builds and builds in the back of her throat. She cannot fight it forever, though, but Deshanna only holds her tighter as Ariala’s sobs shudder through her. Her chest heaves as she tries to find breath and comes up empty.

“I give my grief to the care of the Mother,” Deshanna says, softly, fingers carding through her hair. It is an old mantra, meant to calm rather than soothe, but Ariala cannot stop her tears. She has been unable to stop her tears for the past two weeks. “Say it with me, da’vhenan.”

Ariala takes a deep, gasping breath, and she says the mantra through her tears. She says it again, again, and even when she is crying too hard to speak she thinks it. _I give my grief to the care of the Mother._

Against all odds, as it has always done, it begins to calm her.

When she can speak again, after her eyes are sore and puffy and her nose is stuffed, she whispers, “I told agents of the Inquisition to assassinate the Duke. He was the one responsible for everything that’d happened to the clan. I thought if he was dead—I thought—” She is too exhausted to shed more tears, but a lump wells in her throat and she closes her eyes.

Deshanna is quiet for a long time, fingers stilling on her hair, and her silence is worse than outright condemnation. “Still, other choices had as much an impact on this as yours. The humans chose to kill us instead of asking questions. I chose to keep our clan near the city instead of moving us to safety at the first sign of danger. You could not have known what would happen, Ariala.”

She winces at the lack of an endearment. “If I had been here…”

“They would have killed you. There were a hundred of them, and forty of us.” Deshanna pulls back, lifts Ariala’s chin, and meets her gaze. “You came to see your family buried. That is the best you could do, and I would ask no more of you.”

“You don’t hate me?” Ariala asks, voice small. Deshanna smiles, but there are tears in her eyes.

“My dearest,” she says. “How could you _ever_ think I hate you?”

Ariala’s exhale shakes. She closes her eyes and bows her head, and Deshanna presses a kiss to her forehead. Ariala’s shoulders slump and she lifts a hand, grabbing her grandmother’s shoulder and holding on. “I killed a man,” she says. “In Wycome. He told me he helped kill the clan. It was a quick death.”

“He deserved worse.”

“I’ve been so angry, Mamaela,” Ariala says, softly. “The entire journey here, I’ve been _furious_. At Solas, at Wycome, at people. I don’t—I don’t know how to _not_ be angry. I want to kill every human in Wycome and I wanted to open a rift in the middle of the city and let everyone die. But that—that’s not me. It shouldn’t be. I don’t know what to do. How to stop.”

She sniffs. Her grandmother grabs her chin again and forces Ariala to look at her. “You are cruel when you are angry,” she says. It’s something she’s been told a thousand thousand times before, but Ariala looks down again, cheeks coloring in shame.

“Do I not have a right to be angry?” Ariala asks, very quietly.

Her grandmother sighs. “Of course you do, da’vhenan. But do not alienate the ones you love because of it.” She guides her down, and Ariala lays her head on her grandmother’s lap, like when she’d been little. Her grandmother undoes her bun, which has already come half-undone, and starts threading her fingers through Ariala’s hair. “I do not know how you can overcome your anger.  All we can do is grieve the dead, and try to live life once again.”

“ _How?_ ” she asks, voice small and hoarse. “How can we just… move on from something like this?”

“We are Dalish,” says her grandmother. “The last of the Elvhen. We endure when no one else can.” It isn’t really an answer, though, and both of them know it. Deshanna sighs. “I am sorry I do not have better answers for you. I have never been able to answer that question for myself. All I know is that revenge is not the way.”

“What about when Papae was murdered?” She cannot keep the bitterness from her voice. “You didn’t want revenge then?”

Her grandmother’s hand goes still. “I had a clan to protect then,” she says. “I could not sacrifice them to save your father.” Her voice breaks. “Much as I wished otherwise.” Ariala swallows, suddenly feeling like an ass for bringing up an eternally sore point between them, but her grandmother continues. “I know you cannot forgive me for what happened to your father. But he was my son, and if I could go back and save him without risking the clan’s safety, I would do so in an _instant_.”

“I know,” Ariala murmurs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve brought it up.”

Her grandmother starts stroking her hair again. Ariala feels empty and numb, even as her grandmother’s warmth unclenches something hidden deep within her. Deshanna sighs again. “You said you were angry at Solas,” she says, and though it’s a blatant attempt to change the subject, Ariala wants to talk about Solas even _less_ than she does about her father.

“Yes. Do you want to know the strangest thing about the humans?”

Mercifully, her grandmother does not press the issue. “What is the strangest thing about the humans?” she asks, amused.

Ariala, somehow, smiles. “The women shave their legs and their underarms. Not just for special occasions, _all the time_. I tried to do it once with a razor and cut myself everywhere, and I didn’t even like the look of it. There were a _ton_ of bumps on my skin. It was an awful experience.

“And then Josie heard about what I did, and she gave me some kind of cream to put on my legs beforehand. My skin was much smoother, but it is such a _hassle_. Imagine every woman in the clan spending an hour in the river once a week.” Deshanna’s nose wrinkles at the thought of so much wasted time, and Ariala laughs. “Josie apparently shaves her legs every three days.”

“Why would they shave their legs?” Deshanna asks, bemused. “Isn’t it cold up in the mountains? Wouldn’t shaving their legs make them colder?”

“The humans think it’s… I don’t know, it’s a shem beauty standard.”

“I see.” She continues to look bewildered, though, probably at the thought of all that time the human women spend shaving, and Ariala laughs.

It feels good to laugh.

“They have treated you well?” her grandmother asks, abruptly. “The people in your organization?”

“Yes, Mamaela. Very well. They’ve been kind.” She thinks of Dorian, of Bull, of Varric. “Some of them have become my dearest friends, if you can believe it.”

Her grandmother bends down, kissing Ariala’s temple. “I am glad of it.” She tucks a strand of black hair behind Ariala’s ear. “I must return to the clan, dearest one. Solas cannot do everything alone.”

Ariala nods, sitting up, and watches her grandmother rise slowly to her feet. Deshanna tries to hide her wince, but does not fully succeed, and Ariala notices how her hand presses against her side. “Mamaela,” she says. “Solas is a skilled healer. He’s saved my life many times. He could…” She trails off at the expression on her grandmother’s face, fondness interspersed with grief.

“You saw the salve?” she asks. Ariala nods. Deshanna kneels once again and presses their foreheads together. “We will speak of it later. I swear it.”

Ariala squeezes her eyes shut and nods. She feels bereft when her grandmother pulls away, even though she stands to help Deshanna to her feet. She waits until Deshanna has disappeared back into the trees before sitting by the creekside again.

She wets a cloth and drags it all across her body. After that, she fills the pitcher and bends her head over the creekside, pouring the water over her head and shivering as cold water soaks her hair, runs down the back of her neck, and splashes back into the creek. She wrings out her hair as best she can, then anoints herself with rose oil: first her scalp, then the hollows of her throat, the fine tufts of hair under her arms.

The scent is familiar, cherished, and it calms her, though she knows her sweat will overpower the oil by the end of the day. She closes her eyes, doing her best to accept what is to come.

She is not ready to see the clan—she will never be—but she is Dalish. She will endure.

She dresses, gathers her things, and makes the trek back to camp. Once she has returned her bathing items to their rightful place, she ties her hair into its usual bun and goes outside. Solas has taken off his outer tunic, and his biceps gleam with his sweat in the sunlight.

Ariala catches herself staring, then shakes her head and sees her grandmother with a smaller shovel. She steps forward, ready to intervene, before she sees that her grandmother has only made a foot-wide hole, not large enough for a grave, but large enough for a sapling.

Good. She won’t strain herself.

Ariala takes a breath, then grabs the third shovel and starts digging.

— ✦ —

At the end of the day, they’ve only managed to dig three graves. Her grandmother has been more successful, having planted six saplings, but Ariala can tell that it’s going to be a long several days. As the sun begins to set, they bury six of her clan. Shenuvun and his love Mira are cleaned of blood and buried together, as are Theron and Lyra, buried with their daughter Siona, whose body is still gouged with wounds from crossbow bolts. Deshanna holds Siona the same way Solas had when he’d found her that afternoon, and as she hands the child to Ariala, a lump wells in Ariala’s throat. She carefully tucks Siona into the stiff arms of her parents, and, with Solas’s help, climbs out of the grave.

The sixth of their clan to be buried is Mahanon. He is pale, the wound across his throat garish but bloodless, and Ariala almost does not notice her tears until they land on his cheek and continue their journey, carving a gleaming path down his face, as if he himself was weeping as well. She kneels at the side of the third grave and looks up, her gaze meeting Solas’s. He watches her for a long while before holding out his arms. She gives Mahanon to him, and almost does not notice how their fingers brush when Solas goes to support his head, holding the boy close to him.

She watches Solas place Mahanon in his final resting place. “I was with him,” she says, suddenly. “I made sure he did not die alone.”

Solas stills, then watches her, his expression unreadable. “A kinder thing than you know,” he tells her, quietly, and she thinks of his gravestone in the Fade.

She helps him out of the grave, then takes up her shovel and begins to fill the graves at his side. They are half-done when Deshanna calls them over for the evening meal. By the time they eat and finish filling the graves, night has already fallen and Deshanna has already rekindled the fire. She sits before the flames, silent, waiting for them.

“The vigil,” says Ariala, wiping at her cheeks and feeling dirt smear across her skin. Her hands are blistered from rubbing against the shovel, but Deshanna has fresh bandages in her lap. She starts for the fire, but stops when she notices Solas hanging back, most of him cast in darkness.

“What is it?” she asks; out of the corner of her eye, Deshanna turns her head. Solas still hesitates, so she offers her blistered hand, palm-up, and waits. Solas gazes at her extended hand and does nothing.

She tries to ignore the pang of hurt in her chest as she lowers her hand.

“Solas,” Deshanna says, standing and joining Ariala’s side. “Will you keep vigil with us?”

Solas lifts his gaze from Ariala, eyes hard and wary. “The Dalish allow outsiders at such an event?”

Deshanna smiles. “You are no outsider. You have helped bury our clan, and you accompanied my granddaughter here when no one else would.” Then, more gently, she says, “And I would not have my Ariala be the only one who passes on their stories.”

“I told you, you’re a better storyteller than I am,” Ariala says. “And I already said you were welcome at the vigil. Remember?”

The wariness fades, a little bit, and his expression softens as he looks at her. “Very well.”

Once they return to the fire, Deshanna gives Ariala the bowl of ointment and bandages. Solas sits across from them, his hands balled into fists and resting on his knees, but Ariala sits at his side nonetheless. He tenses, shoulders squaring near-imperceptibly, but Ariala ignores it. She nods to his hands, then says, “May I tend to them?”

He exhales, and he gives a slight nod. She glances at him, but he is staring at the fire. Carefully, she takes his hands and unclenches his fingers, spreading them until his blistered palms are exposed to the night air. A few of them have already popped, revealing red flesh underneath, raw and angry.

Ariala dips a fingertip in the ointment and begins to rub it into Solas’s hand. She can feel the pulse of his heart in the heel of his palm—it’s rapid, nervous, like a hummingbird’s. She tends to him with care, as her father once had when she’d tried to help him build an aravel and got splinters everywhere, and it helps distract her from what she’d spent the day doing.

 _They’re dead because of me_ , she thinks, blinking hard.

Her thoughts are interrupted when her grandmother begins to sing. It’s a familiar tune, a mournful hymn to Falon’Din to watch over the souls of the lost until they are safely within the Beyond. She’d first sung it the winter before her father’s death, when two clan elders succumbed to the relentless cold. It is meant to be sung by a chorus of voices, but there is only Ariala and her grandmother. Ariala joins in, though her voice is neither as strong nor as pretty as her grandmother’s, and she starts wrapping Solas’s hand even as her tears begin to fall.

Her participation in the song stutters, stumbles, but never stops. Her vision is blurry and her cheeks wet, but the dark fury that has been fueling her since she got the letter is absent. In its place is a grief that lingers in the deepest crevices of her heart, weighing her down and leaving her cold.

She sniffs as the hymn draws to a close, and she feels a hand on her cheek. She looks up, startled, and Solas watches her with dark, mournful eyes as his thumb rests against her cheekbone and wipes away her tears. Her breath catches, and for an instant she hopes that her back is to her grandmother, that Deshanna has not witnessed any of this.

Her grandmother, for all her virtues, is a very… _curious_ woman. If she’d seen, there would undoubtedly be awkward questions, once they are alone in the aravel together.

His lips part, and he looks as if he wishes to say something, but then he looks over her shoulder and his expression smoothes over. His hand drops from her face and she feels colder without his touch.

 _I miss you_ , she wants to say, but she holds her tongue.

The dead come first tonight.

She finishes wrapping his left hand and reaches for his other, tending to the popped blisters first before wrapping his hand in protective bandages. Deshanna is silent for a long while. “Who would you like to speak of first?” she asks Ariala, at last.

“Siona,” Ariala says. “She was just a babe when I left for the Conclave. I didn’t even know who she was when I first saw her.”

Deshanna smiles, wide but melancholy. “Siona was… you remember when she was born?”

“In the middle of a rainstorm, in autumn,” Ariala recalls, smiling. “We couldn’t move to higher ground because there was so much water and mud.”

Deshanna nods. “Yes. She learned how to walk before she could speak. And she put those legs to good use. She was always running—usually away from her mother, and always laughing. It was a great game to her, and to Lyra. There was not a day that passed that Siona’s laughter did not fill the camp.”

Ariala finishes wrapping Solas’s right hand. “Was Lyra a new mother?” Solas asks. He does not acknowledge her except for a quiet _thank you, Inquisitor_ , and she does not look back as she returns to her grandmother’s side to tend to her own hands.

“Oh, yes. And she was _so_ anxious, at first. Never let Siona out of her sight. But we mothers do not abandon our own. Eventually, she allowed us to watch over her baby girl, so she could complete tasks or spend time with her bonded, Theron.”

They spend the night like that—laughing and weeping in turns as they share stories and memories, fond recollections of the dead. Across the fire, Solas watches them in silence, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees. He looks distant, detached, a spectator instead of a participant.

Ariala holds out a hand to Solas. “Come here, Solas,” she says to him. The neutrality cracks, and, hesitant, he leaves his place across from them to sit at Deshanna’s other side, so the three of them are all facing each other.

After that, Solas begins to asks questions, and looks genuinely interested. Though he is dirt-smeared and bandaged, bruised and exhausted, as she is, he is smiling, as enthralled with Deshanna’s humor and storytelling as everyone else who’s ever met her.

A funeral is meant to be catharsis. It had been a way for the clan to tell each other, _look how well they were loved—look how well we love them still._

Ariala wipes at a few stray tears, but smiles when Solas notices the movement and looks at her. Deshanna is regaling them with the tale of how Shenuvun and Mira met. A sweet tale, set in the summer, when the clan had been stricken by illness and Shenuvun had been one of the few hunters healthy enough to find food for the clan.

“Mira was the daughter of the village apothecary,” Deshanna explains. “Shenuvun found her by luck. She’d never seen a Dalish elf before; she agreed to give him some herbs from their garden, and showed him how to make the medicinal broth that would break our fevers. In return for her assistance, all she asked from him was a kiss.”

Solas raises his eyebrows. He does not say anything, but his expression conveys his disbelief well enough. “She was fourteen,” Ariala says. “Probably wanted a story to tell her friends.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “How did she come to be a part of the clan?”

“We returned to the village five years after they met,” Deshanna says. “Ariala had just learned to talk, and everywhere she went she cursed at people because her father never held his tongue around her and their reactions made her laugh.”

“What?” Ariala asks, startled. “You never told me this.”

“Oh, you were a menace,” Deshanna says, laughing and reaching for her hand. She squeezes Ariala’s fingers and continues. “We had locked a trunk in my aravel, to keep her from getting into it—because she enjoyed taking things out of their proper places, too—and I was having a meeting with one of the clan elders. Ariala toddles over, tries to open the trunk. When she can’t, she sits down. I thought she would cry, but instead, she says, ‘ _Fucking damn it!_ ’”

Ariala’s eyes go wide, and she starts laughing. Solas leans forward, his mouth curling up into a smile as he gazes at her from across the fire. “Immediately after the meeting, I take Ariala and go to her father, my son. I say, ‘Sylvunis, do you know what Ariala just said?’ and he says, ‘Mother, I can explain.’” She shakes her head. “The damage was done, though. You knew your language vexed the _hahrens_ , which you thought was hilarious, and so you sought to swear whenever you could.”

“I don’t remember any of this,” says Ariala, and Deshanna smiles.

“You were barely walking at the time. You grew out of it, and once you did, the wellbeing of all our elders miraculously improved.”

“I cannot imagine you as a child,” Solas admits, quietly. There’s a strange furrow between his brows. Ariala flounders, unsure of how to reply, but her grandmother saves her.

“But I got distracted. What were we—ah, yes, Mira.”

When there’s a lull in the night—after Deshanna had finished regaling Solas with the tale of how Mira left her village behind and joined their clan—Deshanna puts her hands on her knees. “Do you remember how to play the lute?” she asks Ariala, who makes a face. “Oh, stop it, or I’ll actually go get it.”

 _“Mamaela,”_ she whines, and Deshanna stands.

“One moment,” she tells Solas. She leaves the light of the fire, silhouetted in the dark as she moves toward an aravel and disappears inside.

Ariala turns to Solas. “Your grandmother seems a good woman,” he tells her, at last. “I am glad we met.”

“Me too,” she says, and means it.

She looks over her shoulder and sees her grandmother slowly climbing down the steps, one hand on the aravel for balance and the other holding Adhlean’s lute. She stumbles in the dark, and Ariala tenses, ready to get up and go help, but a heartbeat later Deshanna finds her footing and makes her way back to the fireplace. She sits down next to Ariala and silently shoves the lute into her hands.

“You know I was never very good. Adhlean was the musician.”

“I have not heard any music in a month,” Deshanna says. It is a quiet admittance, meant more for Ariala’s ears than Solas’s. “Please, da’vhenan, humor me.”

Ariala swallows hard, then nods.

She strums carefully, reacquainting herself with the instrument she had played rarely, and only when Adhlean was in the mood to share. The clan had drums, but Adhlean’s lute—given to him by a farmer in exchange for excess winter furs—was the only one of its kind with Clan Lavellan.

None of the clan’s songs would work with a single instrument; they were meant for celebrations, and depended upon dozens of hands and feet drumming out a rhythm. She thinks of Maryden, then, and a tavern song she’s heard so often that she probably knows the melody by heart. Nodding to herself, she begins her preparation.

She hums a note every so often and plucks at individual strings until her notes match her pitch. Once she finds the first note, playing through the song by ear isn’t too hard; as a final precaution, she strums through the basic melody until she’s certain her fingers won’t fumble as she’s performing.

“I haven’t heard this one,” Solas tells her, and she laughs.

“Only because you never go to the tavern,” she teases. “If you did, you’d hear it every hour. Even more often if Sera’s in the tavern.”

He looks intrigued, and Deshanna has a slight smile. Ariala strums again, then begins to play.

 _“Sera was never an agreeable girl—_  
_Her tongue tells tales of rebellion._  
_But she was so fast,_  
_And quick with her bow,  
__No one quite knew where she came from._  

 _Sera was never quite the quietest girl—_  
_Her attacks are loud and they're joyful._  
_But she knew the ways of nobler men,  
_ _And she knew how to enrage them.”_

Her range is not as good as Maryden’s, so the pitch falls flat, and sometimes she stops singing to focus on playing the notes properly. But always, without fail, she finds her way back to the tune and keeps going.

 _“She would always like to say,_  
_‘Why change the past,  
_ _When you can own this day?’”_

She flubs the notes and looks up at Solas, who has a strange, stricken expression on his face. He meets her eyes and turns his gaze back to the fire, some strange melancholy falling over him. Ariala frowns down at the lute and resumes her playing.

 _“Today she will fight,_  
_To keep her way._  
_A rogue and a thief,  
_ _And she'll tempt your fate._

 _Sera was never quite the wealthiest girl—  
_ _Some say she lives in a tavern.”_

Ariala starts laughing, then, unable to stop herself. Her hands falter, and she grins at her grandmother. “Sera lives in Skyhold's tavern,” she confesses, grinning. Deshanna smiles too, and the sight is encouraging enough that Ariala pushes aside her feelings of inadequacy and returns her focus to the lute. Once she has the notes again, she starts once more.

 _"But she was so sharp,_  
_And quick with her bow—  
_ _Arrows strike like a dragon._

 _Sera was never quite the gentlest girl—_  
_Her eyes were sharp like a razor._  
_But she knew the ways of commoner men,  
_ _And she knew just how to use them.”_

She sings the chorus twice more before finishing with a dramatic, off-tune strumming. “You have a lovely voice,” says Deshanna, once the silence settles in and it’s clear Ariala is finished with the tavern song. Ariala rolls her eyes. Deshanna laughs and fondly strokes her hair. “You have a _passable_ voice, da’vhenan, but I love it nonetheless.”

“Does Sera enjoy that song?” Solas asks.

“She _hates_ it,” Ariala says, laughing despite herself. “Well, she _did_ hate it. I think it’s grown on her since then, especially since Maryden thinks it’s hilarious to play it every time Sera’s in the tavern. It is catchy, isn’t it?”

Ariala leans her head on her grandmother’s shoulder. “Tell me of this Sera,” says Deshanna. “Are you friends?”

“Unfortunately,” says Solas, but he is smirking, and his tone is wry, rather than truly disdainful.

“Solas!” Ariala replies, but cannot stop herself from laughing. _She_ had put no lizards in his bedroll… but she might’ve made certain Solas hadn’t been in the tent to stop the act.

Not that there was any proof of her involvement.

“Sera enjoys pranking me,” Solas explains to Deshanna, who nods. “Ariala has assisted her antics on occasion, though thankfully it is not a frequent occurrence.” Ariala opens her mouth. Arching an eyebrow, he says, “Do you deny your involvement in the incident with Commander Cullen’s desk?”

She closes her mouth, then grins. “How do you know about that?”

“Do you remember your pranks with Vunora?” Deshanna asks, clicking her tongue. Ariala bursts out laughing, hiding her face as she feels her cheeks start to redden. Deshanna strokes her hair, laughing as well, but she does not hesitate to turn to Solas and say, “They were _terrors_ when they were children. A slight to one was a grave offense to another. Their pranks ranged from bread crumbs on aravel windowsills to stuffing halla—”

“Mamaela!” she squeaks from behind her hands.

“One of the hahrens, Terisin, criticized Vunora’s traps harshly. I had already spoken with him, but Ariala took it upon herself—”

“He made her _cry_ ,” she explains with a shake of her head, too embarrassed to look at Solas. She doesn’t want to see his reaction.

“Ariala took it upon herself,” Deshanna repeats with relish, “to rip open his mattress while he was teaching the young ones, stuff it with halla dung, and then sew the mattress back up. The smell remained for weeks.”

“It was _one!_ One week.”

“She is equally protective of her friends in the Inquisition,” Solas says. He seems amused, and she can’t decide if that is worse. “I have witnessed her travel across Thedas for them, myself included. She does credit to you and your people.”

Deshanna dips her head in acknowledgement. “She does credit to herself,” she says, with a small smile, “but I thank you nonetheless.” Ariala looks down at her bandaged hands, fighting a smile, but Deshanna continues. “You have truly traveled all over Thedas, then, my dearest?”

“Only the southern half. I haven’t been to Antiva, or Nevarra, or Tevinter or Rivain or anywhere else.”

“Still,” says Deshanna, and then her eyes light up. She reaches for Ariala’s hand and squeezes tight. “That reminds me. You must tell me of this Temple of Mythal you wrote to me about. Did you save it before Corypheus could reach it? What did you find there?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ariala sees Solas go very, very still. Ariala squeezes Deshanna’s hand and refocuses all of her attention on her grandmother. “I will tell you,” she promises, “when we’re alone. The things I saw there… the things I’ve learned… they’re best discussed in private.”

Her grandmother sits straighter, confusion naked on her face, but she nods and smoothly turns to Solas. “Ariala told me in her letters that you were a gifted storyteller, Solas. I have always enjoyed good tales and good company. Would you mind sharing some with me tonight?”

He hesitates for just a moment, then nods. They spend the few hours that remain of the night talking. Solas tells Deshanna of the Qunari baker girl, of the battle of Ostwick, of ruined cities buried in ash and forgotten spirits left in the southern wilds.

“You must have traveled all across the world, to be told these tales,” Deshanna says.

“I did not acquire them secondhand,” Solas says. “I witnessed them, in the Fade. I have watched spirits reenact clashes of empires forgotten long ago. I have seen memories of people’s greatest tragedies and triumphs, all preserved by benign spirits, curious about the waking world.”

Deshanna is quiet for a few moments. “You are a Dreamer,” she says. A statement, not a question. Solas looks distinctly uncomfortable as he nods. Deshanna leans forward. “Truly? That… our people have not had Dreamers since the days of Arlathan. And now we have had _two_ in the past ten years alone.” She hums, and then says, more quietly, “I wonder what it means for our people.”

The Well stirs in the back of her mind, an unsettling, shadowing weight of _other_ , perched just on the back of her skull. It whispers a word, once, twice, four five six, a chorus of voices saying the same thing, and then abruptly everything goes silent until the sounds of the camp return to her.

Ariala stares down at her hands, feeling a headache coming, and thinks, _What are you saying?_

The Well is silent before a lone whisper hisses, its voice so clear it feels as though the responder had been standing next to her. _Unworthy._

A spike of pain drives through her forehead, traveling to some spot behind her eye. She presses her fingertips against the spot on her forehead, trying to ease the pressure in her skull as the Well fades, the heavy sense of _other_ creeping away like a receding fog.

“Ariala?” her grandmother asks. Ariala looks up, blinking as spots swim across her vision. The sky is lightening, gray in the predawn light.

“Sorry. Yes?”

“I was telling Solas that you two should get some rest. I will wake you both in a few hours, so we may get an early start.”

“I’m sleeping in the aravel with you,” Ariala says. Deshanna sighs, and Ariala squares her jaw, defiant. “I’m not changing my mind, Mamaela.”

“All right,” her grandmother says. “Good night, Solas.”

She rises slowly, stiffly, but waves Ariala away when she moves to help. Solas begins to put out the fire as Ariala watches her grandmother leave. She cannot decide if the dark spot on her grandmother’s lower back is her imagination, a trick of the light, or truly blood, perhaps from old bandages.

Ariala closes her eyes and starts massaging her forehead. “Are you well, Inquisitor?” Solas asks.

“Yes, fine,” she lies. “Just… long day.”

He nods, then begins to stand. Ariala stares at the dying flickers of the fire, determined to not look at him, but she breaks when she hears him begin to set up the tent. She closes her eyes, shakes her head, and stands up, turning. Solas looks surprised when she joins him, but does not say anything, instead handing her the pegs to secure the tent with a “My thanks.”

Once the tent is set up, Ariala wipes her hands on her pants. Solas starts to go inside, but when she says his name, he stills, looking up at her from his half-crouching, half-kneeling position on the ground. Ariala inhales and kneels, too, until they are eye-level. “Thank you,” she says. “For coming with me.”

Solas watches her for a long while, expression unreadable but his eyes creased with sorrow. After the silence, he dips his head. “Of course, Inquisitor.”

His response leaves her feeling bereft, and she doesn’t know why. She nods back, and Solas disappears into his tent. She’s left sitting on the ground outside, palms in her lap, staring at the red canvas of the tent flap in silence.

When she returns to the aravel, her grandmother is in her leathers and breastband, her back to the entrance. A candle is lit, resting safely on a trunk, away from any wooden surface that might catch. Ariala stops in the doorway, her gaze focused on the wound in her back, just above her right hip. It’s closed, but inflamed, surrounded by rings of yellow-white and spots of black. A pile of bloodied bandages rests next to the candle.

“Come in, my dearest, it’s too cold outside to leave the door open,” says her grandmother, picking up a knife. She holds it in the candle flame for several seconds, and Ariala notices that her grandmother had pulled the stepstool—stored under one of the lower bunks, for the little ones—and placed it in front of the bed she’s sitting on.

Ariala takes a deep breath and closes the door behind her. She sits behind her grandmother, unable to look away from the wound. “What caused this?” she asks. Her grandmother gives her the knife, a bowl, and a glass vial that, when she uncorks, realizes is alcohol.

“Crossbow bolt,” Deshanna says. “The wound must be drained.”

“It hasn’t healed properly?” Ariala asks, and carefully slices open the puffy, half-healed flesh, pressing the rim of the wooden bowl under the bottommost edge of the wound. Liquefied pus pours from the wound, and she gags at the stench that hits her full in the face. Eyes watering, she presses on the skin around the opening, watching as egg-yolk-yellow liquid and blood begins to fill the bowl.

“So,” her grandmother says, conversationally, as if nothing is amiss. Ariala tenses, expecting Solas to be brought up, but what Deshanna truly says is, “This… Temple of Mythal. You told me we should speak of it alone. Well, we are alone now. I want to know _everything_ , da’vhenan.” As she speaks, she hands Ariala a threaded needle and a wad of clean bandages, made from a shredded shirt.

Ariala swallows, breathing through her mouth, but she forces her hands to remain steady as she dabs at the wound, cleaning out all vestiges of liquefied pus that remain. “Do you believe in our gods, Mamaela?” Ariala asks, holding the needlepoint to the flame. “Truly believe in them?”

“Of course,” Deshanna says, fervently, and Ariala’s heart sinks.

“I did too,” Ariala says. “But the Temple…”

She stops, and takes a breath. Her grandmother turns, expression solemn. She lifts a hand and holds Ariala’s chin between thumb and forefinger. “What did you see?”

“There were ancient elves there,” she tells her grandmother. Deshanna’s eyes widen. “One of them called me _shemlen_ and said I was not of the People, that I was just a shadow. There were… memories, there, of things the gods did, but if they did them, if it’s true, I don’t know how we could still honor them, I don’t know how we could’ve forgotten—”

“What things?”

“Ghilan’nain created monsters,” Ariala whispers. “Monsters of land, and sea, that destroyed cities and terrorized the People for years. Falon’Din would—would _slaughter_ cities for his own pride, for his own thirst for blood and power and—Andruil was mad, she would hunt the People for sport—Mythal was _murdered!_ ”

“Breathe, Ariala.”

Ariala sucks in a breath, but it’s shaky, and she doesn’t realize there are tears in her eyes until she blinks and one runs down her cheek. She hears Abelas and the Well, whispering over each other. _You are not my people; unworthy; shadows wearing vallaslin._ Even Solas at the Temple, fresh from a fight with Morrigan, bristling as he’d told her to _never mistake your people for arbiters of true elven culture._ Her grandmother brushes the tear away and sighs.

“I need to sew up your wound,” Ariala says with a sniff. She gets her grandmother turned around, and once the wound is cleaned with alcohol and the disinfectant paste, begins to carefully stitch the inflamed skin together. Her stitches had never been the neatest, and her task is made harder because the paste makes her grandmother’s skin slippery, but she grits her teeth and does not stop her work until everything is sewn shut.

With any luck, it will be enough to speed along her grandmother’s recovery. And she’d talk to Solas, see if magic really _couldn’t_ do anything. Once she breaks the thread and ties it into several knots, her grandmother turns around. Ariala takes the bowl and leaves, dumping its contents onto the grass outside. Once she returns, sitting in front of her grandmother, Deshanna takes Ariala’s face in her hands.

Deshanna presses her forehead to hers, and Ariala closes her eyes, her hands lifting hold her grandmother’s wrists. “It was so beautiful,” she whispers. “But the gods… what I saw… what I _know_ … I don’t know if I can believe in them anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” Deshanna soothes, pulling Ariala into an embrace. Ariala squeezes her eyes shut and buries her face in her grandmother’s shoulder. She smells like blood and sick and sweat, not the earthy scent she remembers. “It’s all right.”

“If there are no gods,” Ariala says, hoarsely, “then what is the _point?_ Our people suffer so much, _we_ have suffered so much, and it’s all for nothing. There’s no point in _anything_ —” She’s crying again, just sniffles rather than sobs, but her eyes are so sore that the tears burn.

Her grandmother pulls away and forces Ariala to look at her. “Of course there is a point,” she says, fiercely. “You must never talk like that, my dearest, _never_ , because down that path only lies pain. Do you hear me, Ariala?”

Ariala sniffs and nods. “Yes, Mamaela,” she says.

“Now,” Deshanna says, leaning back. Her eyes gleam in the candlelight. “Surely this Temple was not the only place you have seen. Tell me _everything._ ”

She does. She describes the damp of the lost Temple of Dirthamen; the eerie chill of the Chateau d’Onterre; the quiet peace of Var Bellanaris; Solasan and the still ruins in the Western Approach; the Cradle of Sulevin; the Din’an Hanin; how the trees in the Emerald Graves were so tall their canopies blotted out the sky and towered over giants.

When she finally speaks of the Well, her grandmother’s eyes go wide. “The ancients speak to you?” she breathes.

Ariala hesitates, looking down. “No,” she whispers, ashamed. “No, they hate me. They call me unworthy every time I reach out. They don’t speak unless I initiate. I don’t—” She covers her face with her hand, closing her eyes. After a moment, she looks up, meeting her grandmother’s gaze. “I don’t know why the ancients hate us so much. We’re their successors, we’re their _children_ , shouldn’t they want us to succeed?”

Her breath hitches. Her grandmother shushes her, pulling her into an embrace, and Ariala rests her head on her grandmother’s shoulder. “I thought taking the Well would be a way to rediscover all we’ve lost,” she confesses, “but all it does is prove that the ancient elves were _assholes_.”

Her grandmother laughs. “Well,” she says, “at least you didn’t give it to the shemlen woman. Morgan was her name, you said?”

“Morrigan, but close,” Ariala corrects. “At this point, if the Well is so useless, I’m wondering if I should’ve let her have it. Abelas told me—he told me I’d be bound to Mythal forever. Solas asked me not to take it for that reason. I thought it was a worthy price at the time, but now…”

“It still is,” her grandmother says. “Once the ancients realize their mistake—the things you will _learn_ , da'len. Think of it. It’s what our people have dreamed of since Arlathan fell, and our history was lost to time.”

“What if we learn horrible things?” she asks. “What if nothing is as we thought?”

“Then nothing was as we thought,” Deshanna says, “and we learn, and endure, and grow stronger for it.”

Ariala swallows hard. “There’s one other thing, Mamaela,” she says. “One other thing I’ve learned on my journeys. I don’t… I don’t know how to tell you.”

Her grandmother waits, patient and quiet, as Ariala regards her hands, folded in her lap. “The vallaslin…” She stops, takes a breath. “The vallaslin were slave markings, in ancient Arlathan. Nobles put them their slaves to show which gods they served.”

She dares to look up. Her grandmother’s face is slack with shock. She stares at Ariala, then her gaze darts away, focusing on something only she can see. “What?” she whispers, brows twitching together. “ _What?_ ”

Ariala is silent as she takes her grandmother’s hands in hers. Deshanna clenches her jaw. “How did you learn this?” she asks, finally.

“Solas told me,” Ariala says. Deshanna’s gaze sharpens, and Ariala adds, “The Well confirmed it, too. One of the few things I’ve been able to get from it.”

Deshanna reaches up and traces the rounded lines of June, which stretch across her forehead and cheekbones, and bleed a line through her bottom lip. Ariala cannot read her grandmother’s expression. “Mamaela?” she asks, hesitant. “Talk to me.”

Her grandmother sighs. “I do not know what to say, da’vhenan,” she admits. “I don’t… how could we…”

Ariala waits, but her grandmother says no more. “I am tired, dearest,” she says at last, pulling away from Ariala. Ariala swallows, fingers curling in her lap. “We should rest.”

Ariala nods, hesitant, and gets off the bed. Her grandmother’s movements are stiff as she changes into nightclothes and slips into her bed. Ariala watches her grandmother’s movements carefully, and does not prepare for bed until Deshanna is under her furs and blankets.

Once Ariala is settled, the gleam of dawn shining through the window and across her face, her grandmother speaks.

“Solas has much knowledge about the past of our people,” she muses.

“Yes,” Ariala says, and Deshanna falls silent. Ariala curls on her side, pulling her furs close, and listens to her grandmother’s breathing. She cannot sleep, herself, but several times over the course of their rest, she listens to her grandmother jerk in the bunk below, gasping for air.

A nightmare.

When Deshanna slips from the bunk and leaves the aravel, Ariala closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep.

— ✦ —

A miracle happens that morning.

Ariala emerges from the aravel, blinking two hours’ worth of sleep from her eyes, and sees the valley enshrined in morning fog. The sky is a deep gray, the air smells of rain, and the ground is soggy beneath her bare toes. She inhales deeply, toes digging into the dark soil.

Ariala grabs a shovel, propped against the doorway of the aravel, but stops when she turns back to the valley and sees two white shapes, silhouetted against the fog.

A halla and her calf emerge from the shrouded valley, and Ariala drops her shovel. She stumbles toward the two, managing a handful of footsteps before hesitating. The mother lifts her head, spiralled horns rising proudly in the air. Ariala’s breath catches and she slowly stops, holding out her hand. She has not seen a halla since her time in the Dirth, and even those ones had not allowed her closer than ten feet before sprinting away.

The halla of Clan Lavellan though… they might be kinder.

 _Please come to me. Please remember me_.

After several long moments, the mother starts forward, cautious. Ariala turns her hand palm-up, offering it to sniff, and after nosing at her palm the mother steps back, satisfied. The calf butts his head against her leg, and she leans down to scratch his forehead. He lifts his head, pressing against her, and strands of hair come loose as she pets him.

Ah. Shedding season. She uses her nails then, gently, and his eyes fall closed, one of his hooves stamping the ground. She moves her hand to scratch at the base of his horns, which are just two small bumps on his head, and the calf bleats, one of his back legs trembling.

“Feels good, huh?” she asks, with a slight smile.

The mother watches, then takes a step forward, her eyes closing in expectation. Ariala obliges her as well, scritching the place between her horns that halla can’t easily scratch themselves. While the mother has more dignity than her son, her ears do flick in pleasure. The calf bumps against her, impatient for her touch again, and Ariala laughs.

“I’m so happy to see you again,” she tells them, reaching down to scratch the calf behind his ears.  “Did the rest of the herd make it? Are they okay?”

The mother lifts her head, nosing at Ariala’s cheek. Ariala smiles and blinks back tears as she strokes the doe’s forehead. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she whispers, and the calf bleats again, seeking her attention.

When she finally looks up, she sees Solas just a few feet away, crouching outside the tent and watching her. When he sees that he’s been caught, he flushes and looks away, grabbing his own shovel and moving toward the field.

Ariala looks back at the halla, but they have wandered off, their interest now in her grandmother, who is grinning at them. Her grandmother takes the doe’s jaw in hand and presses a kiss to her forehead, then reaches down to scratch at the calf. Once their greeting is done, the halla start moving toward the grass that lays behind the aravels. Ariala watches them step over the bodies until her grandmother stops at her side.

“A good omen,” she tells her. “More may return in time.”

“I hope so,” Ariala replies, unable to fight her smile. Her grandmother reaches out, and Ariala moves by instinct, wrapping her arms around her and closing her eyes tight. Their embrace is far shorter than she’d like, but when she pulls away, her grandmother touches her forehead to Ariala’s.

“It’s going to rain today,” Deshanna says once they part, leaning against her own shovel.

“I know.”

“We haven’t had any rain since the attack.” Her smile fades, expression becoming somber. “If we don’t bury them all before the storm, there will be nothing left to bury. I’ve preserved them best I could, but…”

“They’ve been gone a month,” Ariala says. She knows what happens when bodies are not buried in a timely manner. “I know.” She turns to her grandmother. “Is your back hurting you?”

“No more than usual,” says Deshanna. Ariala narrows her eyes, but before she can retort, her grandmother shoves the spade into Ariala’s hands. “The dead come first, da’vhenan.”

 _You will be among them if you don’t take care of yourself_ , Ariala wants to say, but she just nods, silent, and gets to work.

They get the entire afternoon before the storm starts.

When the first raindrop falls and hits Ariala’s nose, they’ve buried almost a fourth of her clan, and Deshanna has planted almost twelve saplings. Deshanna decides to use the abandoned aravels as makeshift crypts, until the storm passes and the ground becomes suitable again.

“That will not be necessary,” Solas says. Ariala watches him set his shovel aside and begin to cast a spell. She watches him lift his arms, calling magic to his fingertips as easily as he would draw breath. Deshanna stares as well as a solid greenish barrier begins to form, curling up from the ground in a ring and slowly forming a dome that shields them from the rain and wind as the storm begins in earnest.

“Impressive,” says Deshanna, watching Solas with shrewd eyes. Ariala stares at her grandmother, brow furrowed, because that is the look her grandmother gets when she is determining whether something is a threat.

Ellowen is among those buried, as is Vunora and her son. Ariala is the one who lays her closest childhood friend to rest, and Solas is the one who comes to her with Vunora’s son in his arms. He kneels beside the grave, fingertips carefully adjusting the blanket to hide the infant’s injuries, and does not look away from him once until he is in Ariala’s arms.

“What was his name?” Solas asks, softly. Ariala looks at the boy, who is too pale to seem asleep. One of his ears is docked.

“I don’t know,” Ariala says, voice thick.

Solas nods. Ariala tucks the boy into the stiff arms of his mother, and then reaches up. Solas takes her hands and _pulls_ ; with his help, she is able to climb out of the grave. They are left sitting on the ground, knees touching, watching each other with their faces only inches apart.

Solas takes a breath, but she is the one who pulls away.

The dead come first.

— ✦ —

The rain is still going by the time night falls. Deshanna sets up the fire for the vigil, and Solas and Ariala finish their respective tasks—filling the graves of Adhlean, and Eolas and his bonded, Theranna—before they join her at the fireside. “Who would you like to remember first?” Deshanna asks her, after they sing the hymn. She tsks at her messy bun, plastered to her neck from her sweat. Ariala sits at her side and allows Deshanna to undo her hair.

It is a relief, not feeling the weight press against her neck. Ariala lifts a hand, mussing her hair, and says, “Tell me about Ellowen. You mentioned she got herself a sweetheart while I was gone.”

“Yes. Sarah. She had a good heart. Ellowen went with Adhlean to trade because she wished to see the city; Sarah was the daughter of the only merchant that gave us fair prices. Ellowen would start spending hours, days, in the city, instead of doing chores or learning her trade.”

“What was her trade?” Solas asks.

“Craftsman. Carpenter, to be specific. She helped make that aravel.” Deshanna nods to the aravel that’s fallen on its side. Even in the dark, Ariala can tell that the wood is younger, that the paint is brighter and more fresh. “Found a way to make more storage space without giving up beds.”

Ariala’s eyes widen. “ _Really?_ That’s amazing!” She looks at Solas. “Space in aravels is always in high demand. Any way to make them more efficient is always welcome.”

“Yes,” says Deshanna. Ariala cannot see her grandmother, but her tone betrays her smile. “I was… reluctant to discourage her affections. Their relationship started after our troubles started, and hers was a rare happiness in the clan.” She stops braiding Ariala’s hair and rests her hands on Ariala’s shoulders. Ariala lifts a hand, placing it over her grandmother’s, and feels her fingertips shaking. “I had opportunities to move the clan. But I didn’t. If I had, then perhaps…”

Ariala turns, wordless, and pulls her grandmother into a hug. Deshanna takes a deep breath, returning the embrace for a fierce moment before pulling away and pressing her forehead against Ariala’s.  After a few moments, she pulls away and resumes her braiding. “Anyway. Ellowen was… very much in love. She never wanted to leave Sarah, but she didn’t want to leave her clan, either. I did not want to be the cause of her broken heart.”

“People should seize any chance for a moment's respite in times such as these. I am glad she was allowed some happiness.” Solas pauses, considering. “Has Sarah visited this place? Surely she has learned of the attack by now.”

“She’s the reason we have shovels,” says Deshanna. Her voice breaks. “She brought them the day after the attack, wanted to help me bury her. Mahan—the abomination killed her. For not being of the clan.”

Ariala reaches back again, and Deshanna clasps her hand, squeezing it briefly before returning to the braid. “You have too much hair,” she complains, and Ariala laughs.

They pass the vigil as they had last time; sharing stories, remembering the dead and how well they were loved. Ariala learns the name of Vunora’s son—Mathalin—and how he had been a quiet babe, looking at everything with wide, bewildered eyes since the moment he entered the world. She learns the names of the other two girl children, Tanaleth and Ellora. Solas stays awake the entire time, to his credit, though she can see the bruises under his eyes.

Once the stories have been told, Deshanna hums to herself. “I should like to see this Temple of Mythal for myself, one day,” Deshanna says. Solas stiffens. Ariala shares his concern, and she looks at her grandmother.

“The ancients attacked _everyone_ , Mamaela, myself and Solas included. Solas even tried talking to them in Elven, but they didn’t listen.”

“Elven?” her grandmother asks, arching a brow. “You know Elven, Solas?”

“He speaks it _perfectly_ ,” says Ariala, before he can reply.

“Is that so?” Deshanna asks, her brows rising higher.

“As you have said, I am a Dreamer,” says Solas, who is studiously watching the fire. “I have been lucky to know many spirits with knowledge they are eager to share.”

Her grandmother has a strange look on her face. “Of course,” she says, faintly, then sends Ariala a familiar look, one that means _we’ll talk about this later_. She changes the topic smoothly, asking for another story of Solas’s.

When dawnlight lightens the sky, he is the first one to retire, leaving Deshanna and Ariala alone. Deshanna begins to put out the fire, regarding the dying flames with narrowed eyes.

“What?” Ariala asks.

“How often does Solas cite the Fade for his knowledge?” she asks.

“Honestly? All the time.”

She hums under her breath, expression unreadable, and shook her head. “Let us retire, dearest,” she says, “I am tired.”

Once they’re in the aravel, Ariala insists on checking her grandmother’s wound. The skin around the stitches is red and puffy, but it had looked like that before, so she isn’t too worried. It always takes a few days for inflammation to go down. “Solas can heal this,” Ariala says. “I don’t know why you’re so against using magic to—”

“Dearest one,” Deshanna says, her voice betraying her impatience, “if I could heal this wound with magic, I would have already. Magic cannot heal a disease that has already set in the body.”

Ariala exhales, chastened. “I’m scared for you,” she admits. “I don’t want to lose you to this.”

Deshanna turns again, and Ariala presses her forehead against her grandmother’s. “Rest, dearest,” her grandmother says. “We have all had a long day.”

Ariala is so tired she falls asleep almost immediately. But just as quickly, she finds herself in a dark corner of the Fade, lit by torchlight. A smoldering shadow follows her footsteps, and the longer she walks, the angrier she gets. Hidden between the trees are people she recognizes; she sees the Duke of Wycome, the drunk she’d killed, several sneering Orlesians. She sees Erimond, and her hand twitches toward the knife on her belt. She smells smoke, and through the trees, she sees aravels burning.

The darkness that had found a home in her stirs again.

 _Yes_ , says her shadow, gleeful. _Yes._

Her shadow glints orange-red in the corner of her eye. She turns away from the chaos between the trees, smoothly unsheathing her knife, and sees a demon of Rage slinking in the darkness. It’s black, near indistinguishable from the shadows, except for the bright veins that wind through its skin and bleed smoldering orange light.

Glowing eyes land on her.

In that instant, she knows—this was the demon that killed Mahanon.

Rage grows larger, almost the size of Bull. While its face doesn’t change, she gets the distinct impression that it is grinning at her. _Oh,_ it says, delighted, _you_ _are a feast._

“You killed Mahanon,” she says.

 _No_ , says the demon. She blinks, and suddenly it is not a smoking mass standing before her, but a boy of eleven, clutching his gaping cut throat and staring at her with wide brown eyes. A shadowy copy of herself stands behind him, a bloodied knife in her hands. _You did._

The rage inside her roars to life, and she lunges toward the demon with a scream. She cannot close the distance before Mahanon and her clone melt, forming a pool of black gleaming liquid that moves away every time she takes a step. The third time it avoids her this way, she only thinks for a moment before a bow and quiver appear on her back. She draws an arrow that burns her fingers, but her aim is true, and the demon howls as the silver arrowhead pierces its midsection.

Two more arrows sprout from its body, and smoking orange ichor pours from its wounds. Still, the arrows do not seem to actually be _hurting_ it, because every time she hits it, the demon only grows bigger, and the arrows are absorbed into its body.

 _Oh, little one_ , it says, laughing, _you are a delight._

In a blink, it’s on her, ripping the bow from her hands and knocking her flat on her back with a single blow. Ariala wipes her mouth, and a smear of blood shines wetly on her fingertips. She scrambles to her feet as the demon advances, shrinking in shape until it becomes roughly her own size.

 _Let me in_ , the demon says. _Let me in, child, and Wycome will burn._

She spits in its face. The demon laughs as it backhands her, somehow stronger than its last blow. Ariala collides with a rock wall—the forest had disappeared at some point, and the place resembles an alley of some kind—and her skin scrapes against stone. Too-hot fingers wind in her hair and wrench her backwards, dragging her to the floor until she’s on her knees and the demon stands above her, the strength of a thousand men hidden in its frame.

The demon pulls back her head, exposing her throat. She snarls, but she startles when she recognizes the form that Rage had taken. Her own face, cast in black stone, stares back at her. Smoke curls from glowing orange eyes, and a glinting knife is in her hand.

Ariala cannot move her head much, but when she shifts her gaze forward, she sees a building lit from within, standing across from them. She can see several faces—some curious, some horrified, some afraid—watching her in the window.

“The humans respect your name,” the demon says in her own voice, “but they could soon fear it.” Burning fingers drag down her cheek, and she hisses at the pain, flinching away. It seizes her chin, and she has to bite back a scream as the touch starts to burn. “ _Let me in_.”

“Fuck you,” she snarls.

It shoves her to the ground, and she hears a _crack_ as her nose breaks. She clutches at it, too shocked to truly feel the pain, but a few seconds later it’s there, so intense that involuntary tears prick her eyes and she has to choke back a scream. The demon kicks her in the ribs, forcing her onto her back, then drops down to straddle her. “Let me in, Ariala Lavellan, and I will protect the ones you love. We can avenge the clan together.”

“I have no one left to protect,” she spits, tasting her own blood.

“Do you not?” asks the demon, in her grandmother’s voice. It grips her forearms, and Ariala cannot hold back her scream as her flesh begins to blacken underneath its touch. The demon leans closer, until their noses nearly touch, and Ariala stares into a shadow of her own face. “ _Let. Me. In.”_

Darkness swarms the edges of her vision, suffocating in its omnipresence.

The Anchor flares. She watches the green light pierce the creeping darkness, and an idea comes to her. With the last vestiges of her strength, she lurches to the side, breaking the demon’s hold. She straddles it in turn, gripping its throat with her left hand.

The Anchor sparks, and the demon starts to shriek. It tries to change its shape, to melt into nothing again, but Ariala holds tighter and screams in its face. It claws at her, its fingers losing their solidity and becoming too-hot shadows once more. Every place it touches burns, but Ariala does not notice, too consumed in her own fury. The veins widen and burst, and golden ichor spills white-hot over her skin. Emerald flames lick over the demon’s body, and its shrieks of pain grow louder.

Ariala feels herself shaking with the force of her fury, but she does not stop, squeezing her fingers tighter around the demon’s throat. Her throat goes hoarse, but she keeps screaming, unable to see anything but the creature before her.

She does not stop screaming until the demon goes still, its orange-red eyes fixed on the rock ceiling above them. A moment later, its form begins to unravel, becoming smoke, then dissipating into nothingness. The Anchor sputters, then dims, and she sags to the side, the fury that had been fueling her suddenly gone.

Before she hits the ground, someone catches her.

“Vhenan,” says Solas, voice breaking.

She wakes.

— ✦ —

She wakes with a start. Sunlight filters through the lone window of the aravel, painting the backs of her eyelids gold. Her head lolls, and she winces as a stinging, persistent pain begins to spread through her body. Soon, the pain is so strong it leaves her gasping, and tears prick the corners of her eyes.

The memories come slowly.

She lifts a shaking hand and turns it in the light. There are handprints on her forearm, the skin of the marks gleaming pink. Her flesh had been burned, revealing the vulnerable lower layer. She bites back a scream as she drags the furs and blankets off of her body, and finds that her face, throat, and legs—every place the demon had touched her—are the same, marred by pink, aching handprints and burns where its blood had touched her skin.

She swallows, and that hurts, too.

She sags against the pillows, gritting her teeth and blinking up at the carved wooden ceiling. She’s alone, but she can’t stay in bed all day—she has to find her grandmother, has to make a paste, has to help with the dead—

The aravel door opens. “Mamaela?” she asks.

“No,” says Solas. “She is out hunting for tonight’s meals.”

She turns her head, grimacing as her neck muscles protest the action. The first thing she notices, bizarrely, is that he’s wearing a tunic she’d once stolen from him. It’s frayed and soft, dark blue, and had been much too big for her.

“Solas,” she whispers. In a moment, he is there, sitting at her bedside, his eyes widening as he takes in her injuries. He exhales and takes her hand in his. She winces, sucking in a breath, and he breathes an apology as his fingers begin to glow with magic. Her flesh stings as the burn begins to heal and her skin begins to self-repair.

“What happened?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse.

“It seems you fought a demon,” he says, not looking at her. “And you killed it.”

And then she remembers.

“You were in my dream,” she says. He goes still, lifting his eyes to hers.

“I felt a disturbance in the Fade. When I investigated, the source turned out to be your dream. I thought it was a mere nightmare, at first, but then I felt the demon’s presence. When I entered the dream, it had you pinned.” He exhales. “I watched you fight it off. I watched you destroy it with nothing but your will. An incredible feat, especially against a demon of its strength.”

“It was just Rage,” Ariala says, licking her lips. Solas notices, and a moment later he grabs a small bowl that’d been set out on a trunk, filling it with ice and then melting it. He lifts the rim of the bowl to her lips, his other hand going to cup the back of her head. She drinks greedily, so much so that water spills down her throat, blessedly cool. Even after she drains the bowl, she’s still parched. He refills the bowl twice more, and she drinks it all.

“No, Inquisitor. What you fought was a demon of Fury,” Solas says then, setting the bowl aside. The hand cupping her head pulls away and she aches for its absence. “Older, more complex, and infinitely more powerful than Rage. Your fight should have only fueled its strength.”

“It did,” she whispers, clearing her throat, but her mouth is still dry, her words scratchy, as if she’d inhaled smoke. “It grew stronger as I fought it. I used the Anchor to kill it.”

His eyes widen slightly, then narrow, as if he’s considering the mechanics of it. Ariala keeps her gaze on his face, and after several moments, he purses his lips and refocuses on bathing her skin in healing magic.

“You called me—” she stops. Takes a slow, pained breath. Considers.

Had he called her vhenan? Or had she imagined it? Was it the foolish hope of her own heart, or had he— _does he_ still feel for her?

He is silent, meticulous in his attention on her arm. The pain recedes, bit by bit, though her skin still stings as it heals. Once she can move her fingers, she lifts her hand and cups Solas’s cheek, a gesture at once familiar and aching, like stretching a sore muscle. Solas stills, closing his eyes, and—does she imagine that he leans into her touch?

“You called me vhenan,” she says, quietly. “In the dream.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. A muscle in his jaw twinges under her palm. It is all she needs. Hope blooms in her chest, light and freeing in its buoyancy. “Arasha,” she says, so softly it’s almost inaudible, and his expression crumbles, brows furrowing and eyes squeezing shut.

She shifts, wincing at how her body screams in protest, but it does not stop her from leaning toward Solas. Her thumb strokes his cheekbone, and he swallows again, one hand lifting to cup the back of her hand and hold it in place. His hand trembles against hers.

“If I had arrived a moment later,” Solas says, roughly, “a _moment—_ ”

It reminds her of his reaction in the Emprise. The moment he’d seen her, battered and bleeding and half-frozen, he’d taken her into his arms and confessed his fear of losing her. She’d taken them to a small, quiet, safe place, and she had allowed him to heal her cuts and bruises and wounds. Afterward, she had held him, though he had not stopped shaking for some time.

Solas is not half so terrified now, but his tone is exactly the same.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Solas, I’m fine.” She leans forward and presses her forehead to his. His thumb rubs across the back of her hand, and his exhale shudders as he leans forward, pressing back. She strokes his cheek again, watching his face.

He finally, _finally_ opens his eyes.

When he does, she kisses him.

And for one small, blissful instant, it is as if Crestwood had never happened.

Solas’s lips are warm and chapped, and he makes a soft, choked noise as her mouth brushes against his. But it’s gone in the next moment, as the hand cradling hers moves to her wrist and he pulls away. His fingers are gentle on her skin.

“No,” he says, voice breaking. “Don’t. Please.”

Her face flushes, though from shame or embarrassment, she cannot tell.

“Why?” she asks. She almost reaches for him again, but the misery blatant on his face stays her hand. She pulls away instead, her hand withdrawing from his, and he swallows again, his empty fingers curling in toward his palm.

He sits straighter, shoulders stiffening, his expression morphing into that damned unflappable calm. “The answer would only lead to more questions,” he says. “This is nothing but an emotional entanglement that benefits neither of us.”

“I just wish,” she says. “I wish…” She stops, looking away. There’s a lump in her throat, and her face is burning, and _why_ had she done that, why had she thought that something had changed—

“Ariala? Solas?” her grandmother calls, voice muffled by the aravel walls. Solas distances himself further, crossing hands to grab at the opposite wrist as he focuses on the floor.

Her grandmother opens the door and goes still at what she sees. Her eyes are not for Solas, but for the burns still painfully evident on Ariala’s skin. “Da’vhenan,” she gasps, rushing forward and stopping at her bedside. “What happened?”

“I found the demon that killed Mahanon,” Ariala croaks. “And I killed it.”

“A demon of Fury,” Solas says.

Deshanna looks stricken. “You would not wake,” she says. “I thought you were just overtired. I thought—”

“Mamaela,” Ariala says, reaching for her. Deshanna sits on the bed, taking Ariala’s hands in hers, summoning a soothing healing magic. Ariala hisses as Deshanna focuses on her throat and other arm. “I’m okay,” she manages.

“Oh, my dearest,” her grandmother says, laughing wetly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

Solas stands, and Ariala watches as he leaves. Once he’s gone, her grandmother takes the stool and focuses on her. “How’s your back?” Ariala asks, trying to use the conversation as a distraction from the fresh pain of the healing. “Any better?”

Deshanna hesitates, and Ariala’s heart sinks. “I’ll apply the salve tonight,” she says, and her grandmother smiles again, touching her burned cheek.

“Let us get that healed,” she says.

It takes Deshanna two hours, and several half-empty lyrium bottles, to heal the worst of Ariala’s burns. Once Ariala is able to move without fighting back tears and grimaces of pain, she insists on going outside, on helping with the graves.

“You should be recovering,” her grandmother says.

“The dead come first,” Ariala replies, pointedly, and her grandmother looks none too pleased as she closes her mouth and nods.

When she leaves the aravel, Solas is trying to dig a grave, but the halla calf is making it exceedingly difficult for him. Whenever he turns away, the calf snatches his tunic between his teeth and does not release him until Solas scratches him behind the ears. The mother stands a distance away, languidly grazing, unconcerned about the mischief her son is partaking in. Ariala approaches him, caught in another round of this vicious cycle, and laughs. Solas looks up at the sound, ears turning red. White hair and dirt cover his tunic.

“Need help?” she teases, kneeling.

“Ah—yes. Assistance would be most appreciated in this troublesome matter.” Even as he speaks, he scratches the calf’s head, just around the base of his horn stubs, and the calf’s hoof bounces on the ground so quickly he stumbles. Ariala catches the calf and pulls him to her chest, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Let’s leave poor Solas alone, and get you back to your mamae,” she says. The calf squirms in her arms, bleating, but his protests cease once Ariala starts scratching around his horn stubs. The mother watches as Ariala brings the calf to her side, and once the calf’s hooves land on solid ground, he almost collapses in his scramble to reach his mother. She lowers her head, greeting him with a snuffle, and returns to grazing.

There’s white hair on her hands, which are still pink and healing. The sight makes her smile.

She returns to the dead, and over the course of the day, her grandmother grills Solas. There is no better word for it. She asks about his upbringing, his past, his training, his knowledge of Elven, of Elvhenan, his family, how he joined the Inquisition. None of her questions are accusatory—in fact, her grandmother is all smiling, friendly charm—but whenever Solas isn’t looking at her, her smile vanishes, and she looks at him with narrowed eyes.

Ariala does not understand what change has come over her grandmother, but she holds her tongue. Friendly tone aside, Solas’s discomfort grows more and more visible with each question, until at last her grandmother asks how he hadn’t been possessed the first time he’d gone into the Fade, and Solas says, “May I ask the reason for this sudden line of questioning?” Ariala can hear his annoyance, his unease, beneath the veneer of politeness.

“I am a curious person,” Deshanna says with an easy smile, a bright light in her eyes.

“One could argue excessively so,” Solas replies. “I am fond of my privacy, Keeper.”

“One last question, then, Solas,” Deshanna says. “If you would indulge me.”

She waits until Solas slowly gives a single nod of assent. Deshanna leans against the spade, resting her chin on the backs of her clasped hands. She’s still smiling, but her grandmother is being the Keeper, now.

“What do you think of our gods?”

Ariala stops pretending to be focused on her work and stands straight, looking at Solas. He glances at her, a bit helplessly, then at her grandmother and back at her. Ariala arches an eyebrow, wondering at his reticence; he has certainly never hesitated to tell her of how terrible he considered the elven gods before. Why now?

“I believe they existed,” Solas says, slowly, tearing his gaze from her to meet the gaze of the Keeper. “But I do not believe they were gods, not unless one expands the definition of the word to the point of absurdity.”

When he says nothing more, returning to his digging, her grandmother looks surprised. “Is that all?” she asks, glancing at Ariala.

“No,” says Ariala, staring at Solas, eyes narrowed in thought. “No. He thinks they were fickle, arrogant, petty beings, who feuded and held trite grudges for their own pride. He’s told me as much.”

“I see. I suppose you say these things because of what you witnessed in the Fade?” Deshanna asks, almost musing to herself.

Solas, for his part, looks hopelessly confused, and a bit alarmed. A muscle in his jaw twitches. After a moment, he takes a breath and inclines his head. Not precisely an acknowledgement, but not a denial, either. “There are plenty of ancient memories hidden deep within the Fade, if one only looks,” he says.

“Of course,” says Deshanna again, and she questions Solas no more.

At the vigil, after they had eaten and sung the mourning hymn to Falon’Din, Deshanna tends to her hands, so that the burns are no longer healing marks, but fully gone. They remember Adhlean, Davhalla, others she’d known but had not been close to, several of the elders. Ariala does not cry, tonight, and the ache that has pained her heart since she first rode into camp has sweetened, become more manageable.

They’d buried just over a third of the clan in three days. Excellent progress, for only three people.

Once the stories are told and the dead remembered, Deshanna gestures for her to turn around. Ariala does, and closes her eyes when she feels her grandmother’s hands in her hair. “A few more days, I think, dearest one,” Deshanna tells her, undoing her braid and combing her fingers through her hair. “And then they will be at peace at last.”

Solas gets up and leaves the fire.

“You’ll come with me to Skyhold, right?” Ariala asks, watching him go as her grandmother begins to plait her hair. “Once we bury them.”

“Of course,” says Deshanna, soothing. Ariala nods, satisfied. Solas returns, his sketchbook and charcoal in hand. He sits across from them as always, flipping open his sketchbook to a fresh page and starting to draw. As he and her grandmother work, Deshanna says, “Solas, I’ve a question for you.”

Solas stiffens at once, lifting his gaze from some distant place in the fire to glance at her, then her grandmother. “Yes, Keeper?”

“We have had a wearying few days. There is so much grief here.” Solas nods, tentative and uncertain, and looking like he’s deciding whether or not to bolt right there. Ariala narrows her eyes, thinking. Why was he acting like this so suddenly? Had her grandmother’s questions unnerved him that much?

“Could you give us a good story tonight?”

Solas’s tension eases, and he gives a slight smile. “I would be happy to.” He shifts forward, hands lifting from their place on his knees. “Once, while I slept, I met a friendly spirit who observed the dreams of village girls as love first blossomed in their adolescence. With subtlety, she steered them towards village boys with gentle hearts, who would return their love with gentle kindness.”

Deshanna chuckles. “Truly? How sweet. I had not known spirits took such an interest in our affairs. I’ve only known them to observe, not influence.”

 _If only you knew Cole_ , Ariala thinks with a wry smile.

Solas nods, his smile widening. “The Matchmaker, so I called her. The village never knew its luck.”

“How wonderful,” Deshanna says, softly. She finishes braiding Ariala’s hair and drapes it over her right shoulder. Ariala tilts her head, one hand coming up to rub the kinks in her neck. When she opens her eyes, it’s to see Solas watching her. He averts his gaze at once, staring into the fire for a few heartbeats before returning to his sketchbook.

Her grandmother hums and reaches out, squeezing Ariala’s shoulder. “And you, dearest one?” she asks, teasing. “Has any matchmaker spirit visited you recently in this Inquisition?”

Ariala’s eyes widen despite herself, and she inhales so quickly she cannot stop her cough. Deshanna laughs, delighted, and says, “That’s a yes, then?”

Ariala glances at Solas, who is still staring far too intently at the fire to pretend like he’s not listening to every word they’re saying. She looks back at her grandmother, unsure of what her expression must be, because her grandmother shrugs and says, “You never wrote me the small details of your life, only _Haven was destroyed_ this and _We’re attacking a demon army and I’ll probably die_ that. Surely your life with the Inquisition is not _always_ so dangerous?”

Ariala looks down at that. In the beginning, before she became literate, she’d used Josephine as a scribe, and Josephine had sent her grandmother letters with large, flowing, elegant script. Josephine’s letters had been nothing but status reports. And once Ariala actually learned to write, she had been too embarrassed about the atrocious state of her penmanship to actually send her grandmother anything but the most meaningless letters.

Such a stupid thing to be embarrassed about, she realizes now. So _stupid_.

“Come, da’vhenan, tell me about him!”

Ariala inhales, turning her head from her grandmother. She watches Solas, who is staring resolutely at his sketchbook but not drawing anything. “He’s a scholar,” she says, at last. “He’s in the library almost as much as Dorian, another friend, is. He’s an artist, too. He painted an entire room in Skyhold—I can’t wait for you to see it, Mamaela, it’s extraordinary. I would come in sometimes and just watch him paint for hours.”

“Mhm,” says Deshanna, a smile in her voice. “And what is his name?”

Solas looks up, brows drawing together for an instant before he returns his attention to his sketchbook, a frown tugging at his lips. His fingers tighten on his charcoal, and then he begins drawing once more.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ariala replies, voice quiet and soft. “It didn’t work out.”

“What a shame,” says Deshanna, sounding genuinely disappointed.

Solas keeps sketching, nothing betraying him but the tightness around his eyes. Something cruel sparks in her, and she leans against her grandmother, watching him as she says, “I think we could’ve been happy, if he’d given us a chance.”

He stops sketching and looks at her, silent, unreadable. Briefly, she thinks of her unfairness. She had avoided the topic as much as he had—some small, cowardly part of her _still_ didn’t want to talk about Crestwood—but she shouldn’t be forcing this on him. She shouldn’t be perpetually punishing him for his choice.

He’d had a say in their relationship too.

Chastened by her own thoughts, Ariala looks away.

Deshanna squeezes her shoulder and changes the topic.

Once dawn comes and Solas retires—he does not look at her as he leaves the campfire—Deshanna squeezes Ariala’s shoulder again, harder than last time. “We must speak,” she says. Ariala takes one look at the dark circles under her grandmother’s eyes, the hollows of her face, and her heart flips in fear.

“Your back—” she starts.

Deshanna inhales, shaking her head. “Not that.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Solas.”

“Solas?”

“Aravel,” Deshanna says. “I will meet you there.”

Ariala moves to put out the fire, but stops when she sees her grandmother grimace as she attempts to get up. Ariala reaches out, ready to help her stand, but her grandmother bats her hands away.

“I am sixty-four, not an invalid!” she snaps.

Ariala shrinks back, stunned and silent, and Deshanna sighs. “Abelas, da’len,” she says, getting to her feet on her own. One of her hands goes to her back, and she closes her eyes, pressing her lips together tightly. “I will see you in the aravel.”

Ariala swallows, blood thrumming in her ears. She looks away from the retreating form of her grandmother and turns to the fire. She reaches down to put it out, but stops when she notices that her hands are shaking. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

Once the fire is out, she stands and walks to the aravel on numb legs. Her grandmother is standing before one of the bunks, her forehead pressed against the wooden side beam and her eyes closed. Ariala closes the door behind her.

“Let me see your back,” she says, quietly. It is not a request. Deshanna sighs and turns, sitting cross-legged on her bed as she pulls her tunic up and over her head. Ariala inspects the wound by candlelight, her stomach dropping as she sees the redness around her stitches, the cloudy pus oozing from the half-closed wound. It had not been like this last time she’d checked the wound, which meant—

Infection.

_No._

_Please, no._

Ariala swallows the lump in her throat, blinking hard as she reaches for the knife. She’ll have to remove the stitches, make sure the wound is cleaned before trying again. “I will not apologize for caring about you,” she says, finding the small whittling knife on a trunk and holding its blade in the flame. She glances around and sees the paste she’d made over lunch, sitting on its usual place atop a trunk. “I will _not_ apologize for wanting to keep you alive.”

“Da’vhenan—”

“Don’t ‘da’vhenan’ me. You are all I have left, Mamaela.” The blade begins to glow bright orange, and Ariala pulls it away, realizing her hands are shaking. She exhales harshly, running a hand through her hair. “But you are acting like—like you _want_ to die.”

Deshanna says nothing. As her silence stretches on, ice begins to creep into her veins, fear hollowing the pit of her stomach. “Mamaela,” she says, slowly, “you don’t _want_ to die, do you?”

She exhales, and Ariala’s heart skips a beat. “You do,” she says, horror snaking through her as her grandmother turns. “You want to die.” Her voice breaks. It explains everything; her grandmother’s reluctance to be treated, her insistence on working instead of resting, her lack of concern about the state of her wound—

 _No. Gods, please, anyone,_ no _._

“Ariala—”

“No!” Ariala takes another step back, shaking her head. “What happened to _we endure_? What happened to _we live life once again?_ You were just—you didn’t mean any of it!” Her voice breaks, and she cannot stop her grief from showing through its cracks. “You’re giving up. You want to leave me here, alone—how could you be so selfish?”

Her grandmother opens her mouth, but Ariala is moving before she can hear any excuses. She hears Deshanna call her name as she opens the aravel door, but Ariala only slams the door behind her. Her legs feel weak, ready to give out beneath her, as she sprints to Solas’s tent and slips inside.

He is meditating, sitting cross-legged, his eyes closed. But he starts at her entrance, eyes snapping open. “Inquisitor—?”

“Can magic heal an infection?” she asks.

“Perhaps,” he says, bewildered. “It usually cannot assist any disease already set in the body, but—”

“Help my grandmother,” she says, voice hoarse. She swallows hard, fighting tears. _I will not cry in front of him._ “Please. Her arrow wound, it’s gotten worse, I can’t—”

He shushes her, moving closer, and she closes her eyes. “Please help her,” she says, and those words break a dam within her. She manages to cover her eyes, but she pulls away, fighting a sob as she leaves the tent before Solas can reply.

Her grandmother has emerged from the aravel, but Ariala ignores her as she begins to walk toward the forest, shoulders shaking with the strain of holding back her tears. She hears her name called, again and again, and shakes her head. When she blinks, two tears run down her cheeks, but she manages to keep herself in check.

She will not weep, this time. She has shed enough tears this past month to last a lifetime.

She does not look back as she begins to run.

She does not stop running until her lungs begin to burn, until she has to gasp for breath and wipe sweat from her eyes. The dawn has turned the woods gray instead of black, dappling orange spots of light across the forest floor.

 _She wants to die_ , Ariala thinks, and it is not grief that fills her at the thought, but a dark, familiar, unwelcome anger.

 _Why_? some part of her wonders. Another, darker part thinks _how could she_?

“Fuck,” she hisses, trying to catch her breath. She glances around, then scoops up a rock and throws it as hard as she can. It hits a tree, and a shower of bark scatters across the ground. A flock of birds takes to the sky at the disturbance.

It’s a juvenile way to handle the emotions rioting within her, but it does not stop her from picking up another rock and throwing it at the exact same tree. She throws another, another, until there’s a scar gouged into the tree bark and her fingers grab wet leaves and dirt instead of pebbles.

Once she runs out of rocks, she grips fistfuls of her hair, pacing back and forth as her thoughts race. A scream builds in the back of her throat, fighting to be free, but she grits her teeth and swallows it down.

Why did everyone leave her?

Why was she always alone?

None of this would’ve happened if she hadn’t listened to Leliana. None of it.

“ _Fuck!_ ” she screams, balling her hands into fists. She falls to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut, fighting the tears that threaten to fall. She’s sick of tears, sick of grief, sick of her _weakness._

If she were at Skyhold, she’d have gone for a ride with Syl, or had an archery contest with Sera, or gotten drunk out of her mind with Bull and Dorian and the Chargers. Varric probably would’ve offered her a story, or distracted her with Wicked Grace. Gods, even _Solas_ had been in the rotunda, always ready to listen to her complaints. And there was always, _always_ work to do.

Here, there is no distraction but her own mind.

And she doesn’t know how to escape it.

She needs—

Quiet.

Distance.

Ariala pushes herself to her feet, ignoring the tremble in her arms, and starts running again. She runs until her legs shake with exertion and she stumbles over nothing, until her thoughts are on the pain in her burning lungs and nothing else.

She stumbles to a stop in front of a tree whose branches are too tall for even Bull to reach. She gazes up at it, head craning back, but cannot see the top through the canopy of the forest. She knows she can’t reach the branches, so she sits at the base instead.

The back of her head hits the trunk with a solid, painful _thunk._ Her blood pulses under her skin, steadily as a separate heartbeat. Ariala tilts her chin toward the sky, feeling a lone tear escape the corner of her eye as she tries to catch her breath.

 _Unworthy_ , the Well whispers.

She squeezes her eyes shut and thinks, _No._

She almost believes it, too.

The Well says no more, but its one lonely condemnation is enough to bring a migraine. Ariala rubs at her throbbing forehead, leaning further against the tree. She tries to breathe, slowly, but cannot focus on anything except the spiking pain in her forehead. Eventually, however, the pain subsides, and she falls asleep to the rustle of the wind in the forest.

She wakes up from a fitful nap to the sound of birdsong. A squirrel is digging beside her, but the moment she wakes it stiffens, lifting its head to stare at her with an almost alarmed expression. Ariala doesn’t move, but its nose twitches once and then it’s streaking across the forest floor, climbing up a tree and disappearing into the smaller branches above her.

“Good afternoon,” her grandmother says, cheerfully. Ariala looks away from the squirrel to see her grandmother sitting a few paces away, whittling. She glances around, wondering if she can make an escape without seeming even more childish than she already does, but her grandmother doesn’t give her a chance to even consider the possibility. “Now that you’re awake, you will sit there and listen to what I have to say, or I will make you. Do you hear me, Ariala?”

“Yes, Mamaela,” Ariala says, reluctantly. She crosses her arms and looks straight ahead. “How did you find me?”

Deshanna doesn’t even look up from her whittling. “Who taught you how to track animals? Who taught you how to hunt?”

“Papae,” she retorts, sullen and feeling significantly less mature for it.

Deshanna scoffs, rolling her eyes. “And who do you think taught _him_?”

Ariala crosses her arms over her chest and glances away. “I’m not apologizing.”

Deshanna sets aside her whittling knife and wood. Ariala sneaks a glance. The creation is but a lump of wood, now, with no distinguishable features. She must not have worked on it long. “Nor will you receive one from me,” she says, calmly, turning her face to look Ariala in the eye. “My dearest, you must break this terrible habit of yours. You cannot run from every problem you encounter.”

“I don’t run from _every_ problem—”

“Personal problems,” her grandmother corrects, waving a hand and rolling her eyes. “You have just proven my point.” Ariala looks away, clenching her jaw, and Deshanna sighs. “Look at me, da’vhenan.”

Ariala keeps her gaze on the tree across from her. Deshanna sighs again, but does not press the issue. “You deserve an explanation,” she says, instead. “When the humans came, they came on horseback. It was… so sudden. They killed our sentries, and the wards were not far out enough to adequately warn us of their coming. We had just sat down for the evening meal. The halla were already in their pen, the children ready for bed. When they came, we were not ready.”

Ariala looks down. She says nothing, but Deshanna continues. “We were unarmed, unarmored, and they were prepared for battle. They cut us down, and we could only do so much. Our arrows could not find weaknesses in their chain. I could only fight so many at a time. I was… I went for their leader. I thought if he was killed, we could rout them, escape Wycome, recover and mourn. But I attacked him, and as I was distracted, a crossbowman shot me. The tip was dipped in magebane and poison.”

Ariala closes her eyes.

“I managed to kill the leader despite my injury, but it wasn’t enough.” Deshanna’s voice breaks, and she covers her face with her hands. After several long moments, she lowers her hands and takes a deep breath. “By that time most of the clan was dead or dying. I crawled to the shadow of an aravel and did nothing but watch as the survivors were slaughtered.”

Her breath hitches, and her words come out high pitched. “I was a coward, Ariala. A Keeper is supposed to protect the clan, but I… I…” A sob catches in her throat, and she bows her head.

“The attack wasn’t your fault,” says Ariala.

“No,” Deshanna agrees, shoulders shaking. “But I could have moved the clan. There were warning signs. The bandits, the raids… I should’ve known. But Wycome was good for trading, and agents would come to give us news of you, so I stayed. If I had moved us…” She hunches forward, her tears muffled by her hands, and Ariala feels her own eyes burn as she looks at the sky.

 _I’m sorry,_ she thinks. _They’re dead because of me._

“I sent you the note the morning after the attack,” Deshanna continues, once she has recovered a little. “Sarah delivered it for me, then came back with the shovels. The poison was… brutal. I spent days hallucinating, feverish, worse. Not all the clan was cut down, but those who weren’t… what the humans’ swords could not accomplish, the poison did.”

Ariala swallows hard, squeezing her eyes shut. A terrible end, and one none of them deserved.

“I do not know how I survived,” Deshanna continues, “and I’ve regretted my survival every day since the attack. Not even your return could shake my grief, da’vhenan, though I wish every day it had.”

Ariala does not speak. Deshanna sighs, settling against the tree trunk, lifting her wood and her knife. Ariala watches her whittle for a long few minutes, then says, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I do not want you to say anything,” says her grandmother. “I want you to try to understand. I realize it is difficult.”

“I—I’m not going to let you _die._ I can’t lose you, Mamaela. I _can’t._ ” Her voice breaks, and she looks down at her palms, splayed helplessly in her lap. She swallows hard and blinks.

“You will not be letting me die,” Deshanna says, calmly. “I will make you a promise, da’vhenan. I will fight for my life. I will fight this infection with my every breath. I will not leave you if I can help it. But in return, you must promise me something.”

Ariala clenches her jaw and looks up, silent. Deshanna meets her gaze calmly and says, “If I do pass into the Beyond, you must try to live on without me.”

Ariala starts to shake her head. “I know it seems an impossible task,” Deshanna says, gently, “but promise you will try.”

Ariala sniffs. “What would I do without you?” she asks.

“You have managed well enough without me, Inquisitor,” her grandmother says, pointedly.

“Yeah, but I knew you and the clan were out there,” she retorts, looking up. “I never meant to stay with the Inquisition. I was going to come back, and—and—”

“You have traveled the world, dearest one,” Deshanna replies. She moves closer, until their knees touch. Ariala looks down at her hands, swallowing hard. Her grandmother says, “You have killed _dragons_ , and seen so much of our people’s history. Would you truly have been content being a lowly hunter once more?”

Ariala opens her mouth and finds she cannot speak. Her grandmother huffs a small, knowing laugh, and lifts her hand, brushing the backs of her fingers down Ariala’s cheek. “I am not demanding it of you, da’vhenan. I know that what I ask is no easy thing. All I ask… is that you try.”

Ariala puts her face in her hands. _I can’t_ , her mind screams. _I can’t, I can’t, don’t ask this of me._

Her exhale shudders, and, shoulders bowing, she murmurs her assent.

Deshanna rubs soothing circles into her back, and Ariala leans into the touch, turning her body and resting her head on her grandmother’s shoulder. Deshanna strokes her hair, and her touch soothes something in her, something worn ragged by grief. It makes her feel vulnerable, childish, but also _safe_.

“There is another matter we must speak about,” her grandmother says, after several long minutes of silence. Ariala lifts her head, and Deshanna stares at her, unwavering. “Your companion. Solas.”

Ariala sits up, already wary, but Deshanna does not mention their relationship.

She says, “I think Solas is an ancient.”

The confession stuns her too much to speak. Deshanna watches her, but even after several long moments, Ariala can only sputter. _“What?”_

Deshanna, unsmiling, begins to tick off Solas’s irregularities, as if reciting a memorized list. “First, he is fluent in our language. Even the most learned Keepers struggle with vocabulary, with grammar structures, and yet Solas knows _everything_. We have lost too much of our tongue to even dream of matching his skill.”

“He learned it from a spirit,” Ariala whispers, numb. “In the Fade.”

Deshanna gives her a critical look. “Da’vhenan, you are not a mage, so you must trust my word on this. But no spirit worth its salt would ever gift such an ancient tongue as ours to anyone who simply _asked_. It is rare, and thus precious, knowledge. Any spirit old enough to remember Elvhen would ask for a dear price, one no reasonable mage is willing to pay. Second, do you _truly_ think it is possible to learn just anything in the Fade? Could a man of Solas’s age have accomplished so much in so little time?”

She thinks of the mural in the rotunda, how Josephine had spoken of an Orlesian expert in ancient elven art. He’d gushed over it, Josephine had told her, because it was a perfect replica of the art forms archaeologists had documented in the ruins of the Arlathan forest. She thinks of Dorian, asking Solas about his magical techniques, the puzzlement in his voice as he confessed he recognized nothing Solas did.

 _There is one thing I recognize, though_ , Dorian had told Solas. _Your staffwork. It’s a trait of the mages at the Vinovia Circle, in the Arlathan Forest._

 _I assure you, it is not_ , Solas had coolly replied.

 _But that doesn’t make sense otherwise,_ Dorian had insisted. She had brushed the conversation off, exchanging faces with Sera about the magical theory behind their talk, but now it makes a sudden, perfect, terrible clarity.

The longer her silence stretches on, the more the puzzle pieces begin to fit together. It explains why he was so dismissive of the Dalish, why he called her people children, why he said they were grasping at half-truths and legend, rather than fact. How he seemed to know _so much._

It explains— _everything_.

She stands up. “If he’s an ancient elf,” she starts. She looks down and finds that her hands are shaking. The Well is silent at this revelation, but when she reaches for it, all she gets is some faint sense of exasperation, and smugness. As if it had been waiting for her to figure out the truth.

“If he’s an ancient elf—” she tries again, but cannot find the words. _Then he has lied to the Inquisition. He’s lied about everything, his upbringing, his family, his motives._

Gods, his motives—she thinks of the nature of the orb, a foci meant to channel an elven god’s power, and a blind, wild thought. Could he have ingratiated himself within her Inner Circle in the hopes that she’d give the orb to him, because she trusted him? Could he have pretended to… to _love her,_ to get the orb?

Something small and broken wilts inside her at the thought, even as she dismisses it.

Whatever his motivations, his love had not been false. His affections, the way he’d looked at her when she smiled at him, the way he kissed her and breathed _vhenan_ against her lips, none of that was feigned. And if he’d been trying to manipulate her heart to get the orb, Crestwood never would have happened.

Still, that does not negate one basic fact, if this were true, as she is increasingly believing it is.

“He lied to me,” she whispers. “About _everything_.”

And she does not know what to do.

On one hand, Solas’s allegiances do not lie with the Inquisition. His goals are clear to her—defeat Corypheus, and retrieve the orb. He had stressed the importance of the latter several times to her. But he had never spoken of his plans afterward. That made him an unknown. Dangerous.

On the other—

She thinks of how he’d bring her cocoa after long, exhausting War Council meetings; how he had shared a blanket with her around a campfire in the Wastes; how he’d smile and laugh with her— _their_ —friends in the rare occasions Varric got him to go to the tavern.

How he had kissed her.

 _Arasha,_ she thinks, despairing.

“What do I do?” she asks, softly, helplessly.

Deshanna starts to get up, and instinct has Ariala move to help her. Deshanna breathes hard as she stands, and carefully presses her forehead against Ariala’s. “You treat him as if nothing has changed,” she instructs, and Ariala closes her eyes.

“Look at me, da’len,” Deshanna snaps. Ariala obeys, swallowing hard, and Deshanna holds her face between her hands. “Treat him as you always have, but do not trust him, not until you know what he intends. You have seen the ancients for yourself, dearest one—they despise this world, and they despise us. You must be wary. You must assume the worst.”

Ariala swallows hard. After several long moments, she finally nods. Deshanna sighs and kisses her forehead, stepping back. “Above all, da’vhenan, you must be _careful_. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, Mamaela, I hear you.”

— ✦ —

It takes them another week to bury everyone. Deshanna keeps true to her word; Ariala helps her apply a paste every night, and every morning she takes a tincture of Andraste’s Grace to help her body fight the infection. She rests more often than she works, and when she is outside, it is to watch and converse, not strain herself.

She treats Solas just the same, but Ariala now knows why her eyes narrow whenever his back is turned.

As the days pass and the saplings are planted—they had planted every tree, even the lone sapling that would mark no grave—the valley begins to look less like the site of a massacre and more akin to a small grove. The saplings are not sickly at all; the branches reach her elbow, the leaves are green and healthy, and none of the roots are dead. They’d probably take to the soil well, and survive the winter. Leliana had found a good seller.

Ariala sits before the grove, watching sunlight filter through the young new leaves. The halla mother is lounging in the grass a few paces away, her calf tucked against her side, taking an afternoon nap. Solas sits on an aravel’s steps, sketching.

She does not know what to do about Solas. What would anyone do with the knowledge that an ancient elf kept their company, with unknown goals? He’d told her he wanted to fight Corypheus, but Corypheus’s fall was only a matter of time.

What would he do when Corypheus was gone?

Her grandmother sits next to her, distracting her from her thoughts. “Good afternoon,” her grandmother says, inhaling deeply. Ariala greets her with a smile.

“Have you started packing yet?” she asks. “Skyhold’s in the mountains. It’ll be cold.”

“No,” says her grandmother, amused. “This day is for rest, da’vhenan. The work will start tomorrow.”

Ariala leans against her, resting her head on her grandmother’s head, and frowns when she feels the heat emanating through her grandmother’s clothes. “Are you well?” she asks, sitting up. There’s sweat on Deshanna’s brow, but they’d been working, and it was a hot day. Still... she presses her hand to her grandmother’s cheek, her frown deepening. “You feel feverish.”

Her grandmother rolls her eyes, affectionately. “You worry too much,” she says.

“Mamaela,” she warns.

“I feel _fine_ ,” Deshanna insists. “A little hot. But I will remind you, da’vhenan, it _is_ the middle of summer.”

Ariala frowns at her. “I’ll take a look at it tonight, after dinner,” she promises. Deshanna nods, but there is a look on her face that Ariala does not like. A heavy, foreboding weight sits like a stone between her lungs, and she does not know how to get rid of it.

_Gods, please, anyone, let her stay with me a little longer._

When she checks the wound that night, the skin around Deshanna’s wound is still red and tight. There is no pus, but when her fingers press against the inflamed skin, Deshanna hisses in pain. Ariala frowns at it. “You took your tincture?” she asks, and Deshanna nods. “And the salve?”

“Applied this morning,” her grandmother says, glancing over her shoulder. “Ariala…”

“No,” Ariala says, thickly. “Don’t. Please.”

Deshanna sighs, then lifts a hand, pressing it against Ariala’s cheek. Ariala closes her eyes and presses against the touch. “Rest, da’vhenan,” her grandmother whispers. “Tomorrow we leave for Skyhold.”

— ✦ —

Ariala wakes in the dead of night. She blinks at the ceiling, still warm and languid from sleep, disoriented at her sudden awakening. But then—violent coughs, followed by a retch, then hard, rasping breathing. Ariala sits up, head turning on her own, and sees her grandmother, sitting up in bed, the front of her nightclothes stained.

Ariala is out of her bed so quickly she stumbles and almost falls. She staggers to her grandmother’s bedside, one hand going to support her back. Her other hand grabs her grandmother’s, cold as ice and slippery. “Mamaela?” she asks, panicked. “Mamaela, what’s happening?”

Her hand is dark in the night. She brings it to her nose, recoiling at the smell of blood. “Solas!” she calls, taking a step back, eyes wide and horrified. When she next calls for him, it is a scream, loud enough to be audible through the thin aravel walls. “ _Solas!”_

“Da’vhen—” her grandmother croaks, but the endearment is cut off by a retch. Ariala can smell the blood, the rot, and her stomach churns. She runs to the aravel door, throwing it open, only to see Solas on the other side, eyes wide.

“What is it?” he asks, urgent.

With a gesture, ten magelights spring from nothing and spread throughout the aravel. He looks over her shoulder and his face drains of color. Without a word, he pushes past her and enters the aravel.

Ariala turns and immediately covers her mouth. Her grandmother’s hands are red, and her nightgown is spotted with blood as well. Deshanna slumps against the pillows, face ashen and sweat beading at her forehead. Solas sits at her side, the magelights flocking to him, and places a hand on her stomach and her forehead.

Ariala closes the door behind her. Her legs are so weak, she fears she’ll collapse if she even takes a step. She can only watch, rooted to the floor, condemned at a distance. She watches Solas as his back hunches and green healing magic washes over her. Her grandmother exhales and Ariala watches, terrified, as her chest does not immediately rise.

“Is she breathing?” she asks, and the question gives her enough strength to step forward. Her voice betrays her anxiety, verging on panic. “Is she going to survive this?”

Her grandmother inhales, though the breath is rattling and raspy, and something loosens within her. She can feel Deshanna’s blood drying on her hand. She watches, vision blurred, as Solas’s hands withdraw.

“The infection is in the blood,” he says, numbly, and Ariala almost does not hear his next words, the buzz in her ears is so loud. “There is nothing I can do.”

“Where is my son?” her grandmother asks, weakly. She starts to sit up and cries out in pain, collapsing on the pillows. She glances around, disorientation in her eyes, and calls out, “Sylvunis?” After a moment, she whispers, “Where did he go? _Sylvunis?_ ”

Ariala crosses the short space from the door to the bed, sitting her grandmother’s side and taking her cold hand in both of hers. “Mamaela,” she says, and her grandmother looks at her with wild alarm, no recognition in her eyes. Ariala swallows the lump in her throat. “It’s me, Mamaela,” she whispers, voice thick. “Ariala. You know me.”

Clarity dissipates the fog in her grandmother’s eyes. “Ariala.” Her grandmother’s expression crumples, and a tear escapes her eye. “I tried. I’m so sorry, da’vhenan, I _tried_.”

“Ssh,” Ariala soothes. Her hands are shaking. She holds on tighter to her grandmother’s hand, trying to conceal it. “Ssh, I know, I know. I know you did. Just—try to save your strength, Mamaela.”

Her grandmother swallows, taking a deep, rattling breath. Her other hand lifts, pressing cold fingertips against Ariala’s cheek. She turns into the touch despite the chill of Deshanna’s skin, squeezing her eyes shut. “Now you must keep your promise.”

“Please.” Ariala clenches her jaw, trying to stave off her tears. “Please don’t.” She opens her eyes, and when she blinks, twin tears run down her cheeks. “You haven’t even seen Skyhold yet, you haven’t met Varric or Dorian or Bull—”

“I saw your father in my dream,” her grandmother says.

Ariala cannot stop her sob at the mention of her father. Her grandmother pulls her hand from Ariala’s, and gently holds Ariala’s face between her hands. Her thumb wipes away a tear, and Ariala’s expression crumbles as she lifts her own hand and presses Deshanna’s closer against her. “He is proud of you, Ariala,” her grandmother whispers. “So _fiercely_ proud.”

Ariala’s head lowers, a low, keening sound—a sound she has only heard from dying animals—escaping her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut, but cannot stop her tears no matter how hard she tries. She feels thirteen and lost again.

“He said to me, ‘Mother, tell me of Ariala. How fares our dearest one?’”

She feels her grandmother’s fingertips under her jaw, lifting her chin. Ariala sniffles and meets her grandmother’s gaze, her heart shattering at the fierce pride she sees in them. “And do you know what I said to him?” Deshanna asks. “I said, ‘Sylvunis, once she was known only as Deshanna’s granddaughter. Now I am known only as Inquisitor Ariala Lavellan’s grandmother, and our dearest one’s footsteps shape the world.’”

Ariala’s expression crumbles, and her shoulders shake with her sobs. “Listen to me, dearest one,” her grandmother rasps. Her fingertips seize Ariala’s chin. “I am so proud of you. _We_ are so proud of you.”

“Don’t leave me,” Ariala whispers, voice breaking. Her tears make her plea almost incomprehensible, but somehow her grandmother understands. She always understands.

“Wherever you go, there I will be,” Deshanna promises. “Be brave, my dearest.” She turns away, coughing into her fist, and Ariala’s heart sinks as she sees fresh blood spattered across her grandmother’s hand.

Deshanna inhales wetly and leans back against the pillows, her expression twisted in pain. After a moment, she lifts her clean hand and brushes a strand of hair behind Ariala’s ear. “You have… made me so proud,” she rasps. “So proud, da’vhenan.”

She starts to sit up, but Ariala gently pushes her back down. She leans forward, pressing her forehead against her grandmother’s, squeezing her eyes shut as if the darkness will blot out the reality of what is to come.

 _Don’t leave me_.

“I love you, Mamaela,” she whispers, voice breaking.

“And I you, my dearest,” Deshanna promises. She lifts a trembling hand and touches Ariala’s cheek, offering a small, fragile smile.

Ariala pulls away and holds her hand until she breathes her last. Ariala knows it at once, because her exhale is heavier than any of her other wet, rasping breaths; because her body, once stiff with pain, relaxes into the mattress.

Ariala watches as the light in Deshanna’s dark eyes—eyes she’d inherited—goes flat, and the muscles in her face go slack. After several moments of silence, Ariala lifts a trembling hand and closes her grandmother’s eyes.

“Dareth shiral, Mamaela,” she whispers.

The words break a dam within her. She sits, silent and unmoving, unable to fight the wave of grief that is beginning to rise within her, larger and more crushing than she can handle. Ariala presses her palm to her mouth, trying to stop her tears before they can begin. It is all in vain.

A low wail builds in her throat, muffled by her hand. She hunches over, squeezing her eyes shut as her shoulders shake. Tears spill over her hand and she doubles over, too consumed by grief to think of anything but what she has lost.

She’d never get to tell her family of the things she’d learned, seen, _done_. She’d never hear Adhlean play his lute again, or watch Deshanna train Mahanon, or hear Vunora’s son Mathalin gurgle or cry. She’d never get to listen to the hahrens tell their stories, each more wild and exaggerated than the last. She’d never hear little Siona’s laughter as she ran through the camp, or watch Ellowen carve, or watch Shenuvun and Mira act like teenagers in love despite their age.

She cannot stop her tears, not now. Her wails sound like that of a dying animal, but she can only curl forward, her hands trailing up to knot in her hair.

 _I am alone_ , she thinks, despairing. _I am alone. I am alone. I am alone._

Solas touches her shoulder. It’s just a gentle brush of fingertips, nothing more, but she cannot stop herself from wrenching away from him as violently as he’d left her in the Wycome alley. But the next moment, she looks up, tearstained and stuffy-nosed, and sees Solas.

His eyes are glassy, jaw clenched. She shakes her head, just a little, and reaches for him. His exhale is harsh against her ear as he reaches back, pulling her close. She lets herself lean against his chest, squeezing her eyes shut, one hand clasped tightly over her mouth and the other gripping his tunic.

He’s broad and warm, an anchor, keeping her from being swept away by her anguish. He says nothing as she sobs into his tunic. One arm wraps around her shoulders, holding her close, and the other hand strokes her unbound hair. She feels, briefly, the press of lips against the top of her head, but the caress does nothing but intensify her grief.

She does not know how long he holds her. But as she begins to quiet—as her sobs turn silent, and her tears slow—Solas strokes her hair and whispers to her. It’s some old, elven phrase she doesn’t understand, but she hears _lanalin_ , mother, and it reminds her of the old Dalish mantra.

_I give my grief to the care of the Mother._

She whispers the phrase into the stillness of the aravel, and Solas strokes her hair again as she hiccups, breaths stuttering.

“Good,” he murmurs, mouth moving against her hair. “Again. Breathe, vhenan.”

The endearment slips from his lips easily, casually, thoughtlessly.

It is the gentlest cruelty she’s ever known.

She hiccups, listening as Solas deliberately takes a slow, deep breath. She follows, inhaling. “I give my grief to the care of the Mother,” she murmurs thickly, exhaling slowly with him. Another deep breath strains her lungs. Another exhale. “I give my grief to the care of the Mother. I give my grief…”

“To the care of the Mother,” Solas finishes, hushed. He holds her closer, resting his chin atop her head, one hand cupping the back of her elbow and the other holding her head. His touch is so gentle. She does not feel so alone while he holds her.

Ariala closes her aching eyes and sags against him, pressing her face against his collarbone. Her silent tears burn her eyes and her cheeks, staining his already soaked-tunic. The scent of death is overwhelming, almost suffocating, but she does not want to leave the aravel. She does not want to leave her grandmother.

The weight of her eyelids eventually proves too heavy to resist, however, and she succumbs to her exhaustion in his arms.


	3. vhenan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Solas,” she whispers. “I’ve been so cruel to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so when I started this fic, I reached the 10k mark, and my wonderful beta playwithdinos said, "50k or bust." It was a joke, and I took it as such, except now this fic is bordering on 60k and is likely only gonna grow at some point. rip. next chap will probably take longer, because I have written like... 2% of it. :/
> 
> speaking of my beta, here are some iconic notes from her reading:
> 
> CONTROL YOUR THIRST SOLAS  
> [burning elmo.gif](http://i0.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/000/930/949/fb4.gif) x 1500  
> My stupid little heart just broke into a million pieces S O L A S
> 
> this chapter contains allusions to depression. now, please enjoy the chapter that contains my most favorite scene of the entire fic. :)

She wakes not to the golden-red light of an aravel interior, but the scarlet dimness of a tent. Furs that smell of Solas brush against her arms, and as her crusted eyes open, she realizes that she is alone.

Her first instinct is to roll over and go back to sleep, curl in on herself and try to forget the events of the past night. Even as she moves, a persistent reminder of her duty lingers in her thoughts. _You cannot stay here while Mamaela is unburied. There is work to do._

Her fingers dig into the furs of Solas’s bedroll. With a soft curse, she forces herself up, and her hair falls in a tangle around her face. She keeps her eyes shut as she reaches behind her and begins to braid the unruly knots. She smells like salt and blood and death, but she cannot bathe, not until her grandmother is sent to the Beyond and her body watched over for a night.  

She can still feel her grandmother’s blood on her tunic, stiff where it had stained and settled.

She groans, pressing her hands to her face and dragging them down. Her body is stiff as she moves, and the summer heat tempts her to just lie back down and never leave the bedroll. But she gets up despite it, splashing herself with tepid water from a half-filled washbowl she recognizes from her grandmother’s aravel.

When she exits the tent, she lifts her hand to blot out the sun, blinking against the harsh, bright light. The morning air is cool against her skin, a welcome change from the heat of the tent.

Solas is digging a grave. He’s wearing his undertunic, stained with both new and old sweat. The grave is shallow, only two feet deep at most, and set at the foot of the only sapling that had not marked a grave. Shade from the juvenile grove covers parts of him, but he is still gleaming with sweat, and his scalp is beginning to burn.

How long had he been digging?

“Solas,” she calls, and he startles at the sound of her voice, glancing up as she approaches. There’s dirt smudged on his cheek, and purple bruises under his eyes, more pronounced than when she’d last seen him. Had he slept at all?

“Solas,” she says again, softer, “what are you doing?”

Solas opens his mouth, but says nothing, and he glances away. She tilts her head down at him. “Have you slept?” she wonders.

He shakes his head. “I did not want to disturb you,” he replies.

His answer makes her sigh, and she gets into the grave, her hands wrapping around the handle of the spade. He does not release it, and she glances up at him. “Solas, you look exhausted. Please go sleep.” He looks at her then, brow furrowed, as if he’s about to protest, but she smiles. “I’ve got it. Go rest. You’ve earned it.”

“Your hands are unbandaged,” he notes. “You’ll get blisters.”

“Go rest,” she says again. “I can handle my hands later.”

He watches her again, then, his expression inscrutable. Ariala stares back at him until he nods and cedes the shovel. She watches him sit on the edge of the grave, then stop, looking back to her.

“I am sorry I could not do more for her,” he tells her, quietly.

Ariala glances down, a lump welling in her throat. “The wound was already infected when we arrived,” she manages. “We did everything we could.” She swallows hard and looks back at him. “I’m glad you got to meet her, at least.”

His expression softens. “As am I,” he murmurs.

Once he is gone, she exhales and leans against the shovel, closing her eyes. The fatigue in her is bone-deep, relentless, but her duty keeps her on her feet. Ariala tilts her head back, feeling the heat of the sun on her face, listening to the wind in the grass.

She almost expects to hear the aravel door open, to hear her grandmother’s footsteps on the steps and her voice call out a greeting. She swallows hard, knowing she will never hear her grandmother’s voice again, and opens her eyes. With a harsh exhale, she tightens her grip on her shovel and starts digging.

She digs until Solas comes to her sometime mid-afternoon. He crouches beside the grave, now waist- rather than knee-deep, and says, “Are you hungry?”

“No,” she says, truthfully, and hefts another shovelful of dirt out of the grave. Her blistered palms rub painfully against the shovel handle, and she cannot stop her grimace. Solas must see it, because he sighs.

“I found some salted fish in the storage aravel,” he says, “and apples. I will let you know when they are ready.”

Solas brings out four salted fish and a pot for water. He drops each fish in the pot, then turns and returns to the storage. He emerges with a basket of green apples, the sight of which makes her mouth water. She doesn’t feel hungry, but it’s been days—weeks—since she last had fruit.

She uses the backs of her hands to pull herself out of the grave, wincing at the red and angry blisters on the strips of skin connecting her thumb and index fingers. She shakes her hands behind her back and joins him by the fire.

She expects him to offer her an apple, but then she sees the other, smaller basket—full of cloth bandages. That is what he reaches for first, not the food, and starts to move toward her. Ariala holds out her hand, and after a brief moment of hesitation, he gives her the bandages, sitting nearby. Ariala does not look at him as she begins to wrap her hands. There is no ointment to speed healing, but this should protect her hands from further pain.

“Deshanna is still in the aravel,” he says. “I’ve preserved her for the burial, and I’ve cleaned… most of the waste.”

Ariala nods, murmuring her quiet thanks as she wraps her left hand. She can see the Anchor gleaming under the cloth. That reminds her—she thinks she’d put her gloves in his pack, at some point; the gloves would help protect her hands, too. “I’ll need to bathe her, after I dig the grave,” she says. “And change her.”

“Change her?”

“We are not burying her in her nightgown,” Ariala says, looking up. “She will be buried in the Keeper’s robes of Clan Lavellan, with a cedar branch and oak staff by her side, so she may guide the clan to the Beyond as she guided us in life.”

Solas exhales, staring at her. To his credit, he does not sneer or roll his eyes; she’s glad, because if he had, she doesn’t know how she would’ve reacted. Badly, probably. Solas turns away, and she finishes wrapping her left hand.

As she turns her attentions to her right hand, she asks, “Did you sleep?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good.” She does not look at him as she adds, “You look exhausted.”

His answering laugh is more a huff of amusement than true laughter. “I imagine anyone would, after eight days of little sleep.”

“Well.” She swallows, tightens her bandagings more than strictly necessary. “After tonight, you’ll be able to sleep as long as you like.”

He is quiet. “I did not mean to imply,” he starts, then stops, sighing.

Ariala blinks, looking up at the sky. “It doesn’t matter, Solas,” she mutters. “It just… doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he insists, voice soft. “ _Ir abelas_. I do not regret my participation in the vigils. I am glad to have heard their stories.”

 _You won’t remember them,_ she thinks, frowning. _Ten years from now, a hundred years from now, you will not remember the names of the children you cradled, the people you helped bury. You won’t even remember me._

That knowledge is… more worrisome than she’d thought it would be. Tears sting her eyes and she glances at the sky, blinking rapidly. “I’ve upset you,” Solas notes, notes of soft grief in his voice. She swallows hard.

“It’s fine,” she starts.

“It is _not—_ ”

“Solas, just, _stop_.” She glares at him, and his mouth shuts, teeth clicking together. “It was a thought of my own. Not what you said. Okay?” When he nods, she exhales. “Okay. I’m going to finish digging her grave. And you… you can sleep, or bathe—you know where we keep that, yes? Good, okay. Just. Do whatever you want.” She’s too tired to care about particulars.

Solas says nothing as he takes the pot of fish and sets it over the fire. He hands her an apple, wordless, and she takes it. It’s overripe, soft in spots, but no bruises that she can see. Ariala does not look at him as she bites into it, ignoring its sharp, tangy taste. She hasn’t had fruit in _days_. That knowledge suddenly makes her ravenous, and she takes three other apples from the basket.

Solas does not speak, but every so often, she looks up to catch him watching her, his expression unreadable. He looks away every time she spots him, but it happens several times over the course of their breakfast. The fish, once the pot is pulled from the fire and allowed to cool, flakes in her hands and only tastes faintly of salt.

Once she finishes eating, she stands and dumps the remains of the food into the fire. Solas holds out his hand, nodding toward her plate, and she murmurs her thanks as she hands it to him. She turns away, striding toward the tent. She spots the pack as soon as she enters it; it’s slumped beside his bedroll.

Which she’d slept on.

She swallows, pushing away that thought, and kneels in front of the pack. Her gloves are there, as she’d suspected; they’re near the bottom of the pack, underneath Solas’s charcoal and his journal. She takes out her gloves but sets them aside, focusing instead on the journal.

She is too curious to keep herself from lifting it up, running a finger along the leather spine and staring at the unmarked cover. Some part of her wants to open it, see what he’s been sketching since they arrived here—but to do so would be a gross breach of privacy. She thinks of how Solas had looked, the first and only time he’d allowed her to browse his sketchbook—hesitant, and uncertain, and wary. Ariala closes her eyes and returns the journal to its place in his pack. Then she slips on her gloves and leaves the tent.

The dead come first.

— ✦ —

It takes her six hours to finish digging the grave. By the time she is done, it is early evening—some hours yet before sunset—and she is filthy. Solas had left twice during her task: first to bathe, and the second… she doesn’t know. He’d vanished into the forest some time ago, and had not told her why.

She also had not asked.

She has to climb out of the grave herself—no easy task, since the sides of the grave are a little taller than her. She tosses the shovel out, then grips fistfuls of grass and digs her toes into the soil. She eventually finds enough of a hold that she can drag herself up, but not before she gets herself absolutely covered in dirt in the process.

When she finally crawls out, she rolls onto her back and stares at the graying sky, breathing hard. Turning her head, she sees the halla—who had been missing the entire day—emerge from the treeline, followed by Solas, who is carrying two things. Ariala sits up hastily, using her tunic and hands to wipe the sweat and dirt from her face.  

She’s somewhat presentable by the time Solas reaches camp, his pack thrown over his shoulder. He carries a cedar branch and a piece of oak, long and thick enough to be considered a staff. A lump wells in her throat, and she presses the back of her hand to her mouth.

He stops when he sees her, and self-consciousness has her reaching up to tuck the escaped strands of hair behind her ears. He smiles at her, brief but genuine, and glances down at the cedar and oak in his hands. “I…” His mouth closes, tongue pressing between his lips for an instant, and holds them out to her. “I decided to go out and find the cedar and oak for you. I carved the staff from a branch.” His tone turns endearingly hopeful. “I trust they are sufficient?”

How, _how_ can she ever hope to move on from this man, if he keeps doing things like this?

“Sufficient?” Ariala laughs—more a huff of breath than anything else. She approaches him, her smile tremulous but full of genuine joy, and takes the cedar and oak from him. “Solas, this is wonderful.” She smiles up at him, insecurity forgotten. “Ma serannas.”

His relief is a visceral thing, showing itself through his eyes rather than his expression, and he smiles back at her. “Ara melava son’ganem,” he says. The Well stirs at the words. Her brow furrows slightly, trying to decipher what he’d said, and he notices. “My time was well spent,” he translates.

 _Unworthy_ , the Well says, its thousand thousand voices dripping with disdain.

She swallows, nods, and turns away, ignoring the sudden shame that heats her cheeks. It is not her fault she knows so little of the People’s tongue; she knows this, and still, she feels lesser for her ignorance.

Unworthy.

 _No_ , she thinks. _Stop. I am not unworthy of anything_.

The Well’s laughter rasps in her ear, mocking and cruel. Ariala turns away, returning to the graveside, and places the oak and cedar gently beside the grave. Now all that is needed is to wash and clothe Deshanna.

The aravel, when they enter, is not as terrible as she had feared. Wax candles burn, the flames dulling the acrid scents of death and bodily waste. Deshanna lies on her bed, the evening sunlight casting a diagonal shaft of gold across her body. Solas sits on the left bottom bunk while Ariala approaches her grandmother, bending down to kiss her forehead.

Her face is smooth in death, and her skin has lost most of its color. Her hair is a mess, though, and that will not do for the burial. Ariala smoothes back her grandmother’s baby hairs and kneels to rummage through the underbed storage boxes.

Ariala rifles through the boxes and trunks, one by one, until she gathers what she needs. A leather drawstring pouch holding little golden trinkets, meant to decorate the hair, and a matching choker necklace, painted gold. A vial of lavender oil, two-thirds empty, and the only one they’d had left. A comb, and cloths, for bathing. Solas empties his pack and allows her to put the items inside.

She finds what she is truly looking for in the trunk underneath the bed Solas sits on. She pushes past old, worn travelling clothes to get to the treasure underneath.

Ariala pulls out the Keeper’s robe, used only for marriages or vallaslin ceremonies. The bodice is a deep, emerald green, threaded through with gold. The robe itself is sleeveless, but there are two long separate sleeves, meant to be worn at the elbow, that are made of the same fabric.

A blue and silver one lies below, at the very bottom of the trunk, but that had been when Hanna’sal had been First, before she’d died of illness. Ariala exhales and reaches in, withdrawing the pair of the finest golden-brown leather breeches the clan had been able to afford.

After making sure she has everything, she sits back on her haunches and closes the trunk. Carefully, reverently, she folds the robes and places them into Solas’s empty pack, atop everything else.

She holds his pack close to her chest and nods to Solas. Wordlessly, he stands, sliding his hands under Deshanna’s back and knees. He lifts her and, when Ariala holds the door open, leaves the aravel.

The halla are waiting for them outside. The mother stands regal and proud, and even the calf is somber today. Solas passes the mother, who dips her head, spiral horns catching silver in the light. She raises her head when he passes, black eyes landing on Ariala, and steps forward, lifting her head.

Ariala strokes the fur between her eyes, then moves on.

It is a quiet, somber procession to the brook. Ariala does not look away from Solas’s back and keeps her jaw clenched.

_If I look at her, I will break._

Once they reach the creekside, Solas lays Deshanna gently down on the same site Ariala had bathed but a week ago. He leans her grandmother against the boulder, and Ariala sets the pack and bathing supplies down as well. She kneels beside Deshanna, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen across her face, and nods to Solas.

“Thank you.” Her voice is a whisper.

He kneels as well. “Inquisitor, if you have need of me—”

Ariala looks at him. “I have to do this alone, Solas,” she says.

Solas swallows and nods. “I will return in an hour,” he promises. She reaches for him, and he does not pull away. She presses her forehead to his, eyes falling shut, drawing strength from his closeness.

“Thank you,” she breathes. Solas pulls away, nods, and stands.

As soon as they are alone, she turns to the creek, leaning forward and splashing water on her face. The cold water is bracing against her skin, enough to drive the tiredness from her eyes, but not enough to expunge the heaviness from her limbs. When she moves, she feels as if she is wearing plate armor, not a simple tunic and leathers.

All she wants to do is sleep.

She takes a deep breath and turns back to her grandmother, beginning to strip her. Once she is bare, Ariala carefully washes her body and anoints her with the oil she’d loved so well. She presses fingertips smelling of lavender to her grandmother’s scalp, temples, throat, and wrists. Once she is washed and anointed, Ariala moves so she has easy access to her grandmother’s hair.

She does Deshanna’s hair as she’d used to wear it, when she’d been younger, and her fingers less arthritic. She starts at the top of the temples, taking a finger’s-width of hair and braiding it, pulling each braid to the back of her head and wrapping the two together with the leather band. After that, her grandmother had used a complicated style that Ariala only half-remembers.

The sun beats down on her back. Her hair sticks to her face, curling in the heat. Still, she works.

It takes her three full tries to get it right: two braids at the top of temples, combining with two braids at the sides to form a single knotted tail, leaving the rest free. Once she does get it correct, it is a simple thing to weave the jewelry in Deshanna’s hair, to clasp the necklace around her throat. The jewelry is slightly tarnished, but only if one looks hard enough. In the sunlight, her grandmother is radiant. Ariala traces the smile lines etched into her cheeks, the silver hair at her temples.

Deshanna had been lucky to live so long, she knows, but that knowledge does not ease her grief.

“I’d do anything to get you back,” she whispers, voice cracking. “ _Anything._ ”

Somewhere in the forest, a bird chirps. Ariala looks up and sees Solas standing at the edge of the forest. Once he sees her, he starts moving forward. Ariala holds her grandmother until Solas joins her. He kneels in silence across from her. When he starts to reach for Deshanna, Ariala shakes her head. “Wait,” she whispers. Solas stills, and Ariala leans forward, closing her eyes as she presses her forehead to her grandmother’s.

One last goodbye.

Solas waits until she pulls back and nods at him. He slips his hands under Deshanna’s back and knees, carefully lifting her. Ariala does not withdraw her touch from her grandmother until Solas pulls away, and she stares at her fingertips, suspended in the air, straining for a touch that will never come.

Solas waits for her to gather her things, and then they return to the campsite. Ariala sets her things down and gets into Deshanna’s grave, then turns and holds her arms out. Solas kneels beside her, carefully transferring Deshanna’s body into Ariala’s arms. Once Ariala has her, she gently places her grandmother down on the ground.

Ariala arranges her black hair, threaded through with silver, to splay over the empty space of the grave, displaying the braids she’d worked so hard on. It means nothing to the dead, now, but the sight appeases her pride. After, she places the cedar and oak beside her, one in each stiff hand. She will have no trouble guiding the clan to the Beyond, now. Ariala stands up, and Solas helps her out of the grave. Her grandmother’s face is turned to the sunlight that dapples her features, spotted from the sapling leaves.

There is something reassuring about the sight; it unclenches some deep, pained thing within her, makes her think, _She’s in a better place, now_.

Ariala takes a handful of the upturned dirt and holds it over the grave, ignoring how her hand shakes as she lets the earth slip from her fingers and into the grave.

“Dareth shiral, Mamaela,” she whispers.

She is Dalish. She will endure. She will live on, as she promised.

— ✦ —

Solas stays with her during the entire vigil. At first, he sits on the opposite side of the campfire, but the sight of him so far away makes a lump form in her throat. “Solas,” she says, lifting a hand. “Join me?”

The somber look fades, turning thoughtful, and after a heartbeat Solas stands up and rounds the fire to sit beside her. Ariala does not hesitate to lean against him, and though Solas says nothing, the tension in his body begins to bleed out from him. He leans back, pressing against her, and some half-forgotten emotion thrills through her.

She tells him as many stories as she can remember. She tells him how Deshanna treated the children—with a harsh tone, softened by her smile—how she once chased a naked, shrieking, toddler Mahanon through the camp, all because he had refused to bathe in the nearby river. How she had told stories at the campfire, and used her hands to create characters made of shadows.

“You have not spoken of your grandfather,” Solas says, during a lull. “Was he…?”

Ariala throws her head back and laughs. “That’s a question we’ll never know, unless you go into the Fade and spy on my grandmother,” she teases. His ears go pink, and her smile softens with affection. “No. I never knew my grandfather. Deshanna had a tryst when she was nineteen, at an Arlathvhen, when she was the Second of Clan Istimaethoriel. They were lovers during the whole Arlathvhen, but when it was over, they never saw each other again. Eight months after the Arlathvhen, she had my father. She never told us anything about my grandfather except one thing.”

“Which was?”

Ariala leans forward, conspiratorially. Solas tilts his head down, his eyes dark in the firelight. “He was the most handsome halla tender she’d ever seen,” she says, unable to stop her laughter. He smiles at her, clearly less amused, and she looks away, clearing her throat and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry,” she says. “Told you I wasn’t a good storyteller.”

“No,” says Solas. “No, it was good.”

Ariala rolls her eyes, giving him a _look_ , and that is when he truly laughs—not just huffs of breath, but actual _chuckles_ , sounds she has not heard in some time. They make her heart ache in the best way. He breathes in, afterwards, and shakes his head slightly. “Your storytelling… does need practice,” he amends, and she smiles.

They spend the rest of the night like that: sharing stories, and observations, and laughter. Her eyes glaze over several times, and she does not wipe away any tears that fall tonight. Solas is with her, and despite his mysteries, his secrets, she takes comfort in his presence.

 _Look how well you were loved, Mamaela_ , she thinks, with a smile. _Look how well you are loved still._

He stays with her when the sky begins to lighten, betraying the coming dawn. She watches streaks of pink begin to form, then clears her throat. Solas glances up from the fire, and she glances at her hands. _Be brave_ , she thinks, and forces herself to look up at him.

“Could you draw my vallaslin tonight?”

He blinks, as if he'd misheard, and then his nose scrunches as he stares at her. “What?”

“I’m the last of my clan,” she tells him. His brief outrage disappears, and he looks back down. “My vallaslin is a pattern unique to my clan. I’d like drawings of it, so that I can give them to any clan interested in passing the pattern down.”

He is silent for several moments, and Ariala swallows. “I know what you think about the vallaslin,” she says.

“It is not what I _think_ , it is what they _are_ —”

“What they were,” she interrupts, coolly, too tired to start a fight. Her tone is gentle, but her voice is steel. “The vallaslin _were_ slave markings. Okay. Fine. But that’s not what they are anymore. They’re symbols of pride, of adulthood, of accomplishment. They’re what reminds us of where we’ve been, and how far we have come since then.”

Solas narrows his eyes at her, mouth twisting into a scowl. She speaks before he can reply. “You don’t have to do this for me, Solas, that’s fine. But _that_ is what the vallaslin means to me,” she tells him. “ _That_ is what they mean to my people, to this world. They’re part of me. You told me in Crestwood I was perfect exactly as I was, vallaslin or no vallaslin, and while I don’t expect you—I don’t _want_ you to think I’m perfect, I took your words that night as acceptance of my decision. If I was wrong, you need to tell me, right now.”

The scowl disappears, and he casts his gaze to the fire, chastened.

She stands up, running her hand through her hair, and goes to her grandmother’s aravel. It is dark inside, and she fumbles until she finds matches for the candles. Once she lights them all, carefully and silently, she shakes out her match and regards the warm glow of the aravel interior.

It does not seem so colorful, now, empty and silent as it is.

She runs her hand over the bed that had been hers; the top bunk, on the left hand side of the entrance. She and Vunora had huddled there in winter months, whispering schemes to each other and laughing. Ariala lifts one of the blankets from her bunk, frayed but still soft and bright, and regards it in silence, sitting on Deshanna’s bed as she examines the patterns carefully woven into the fabric. Her grandmother had rarely spoken of her life before Clan Lavellan, but Ariala knew she’d been one of the weavers in Clan Istimaethoriel, and in her spare time she’d woven a few blankets for the clan.

Ariala carefully unfolds the blanket, letting its tasseled ends brush the wooden floor. Though she is not cold, she wraps it around herself, glancing down at the complex patterns of orange, gold, and purple. The texture is rough against her skin, and when she brushes her hand down it, she can feel every thread against the pads of her fingers.  

She has not cried tonight, not yet, but her eyes ache all the same.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to the silence. She brings the blanket to her nose, closing her eyes. She inhales, deeply, but all she can smell is infection and death, and a hint of medicinal elfroot. No campfire smoke. No pinewood. No scents that bring memories of laughter, of friendship, of family.

She climbs up to the top bunk, muscles sore and aching, and rests her head against the wall. With the blanket wrapped around her, she watches the sun begin to rise outside, painting the sky a deep orange streaked through with pink and gold.

A small beauty of the world.

She finds no joy in it.

She rarely finds joy in anything, these days.

Ariala watches the sunrise until her eyelids droop, too heavy to ignore. She falls asleep like that, slumped against the window, face turned away from the light.

— ✦ —

She wakes in silence, only to find that the sun is low in the sky. Late afternoon, then, or early evening. She’d slept through the day. Josephine would’ve been disappointed at the lost time, but she feels nothing. A list of the things she needs to do runs through her head. She’s filthy; she needs to bathe, to change her clothes. Once she’s changed, she’ll need to launder her clothes. She needs to check the saplings, and the halla. She needs to do… so many things.

But simply _thinking_ about leaving the bed exhausts her.

She rolls over and goes back to sleep.

When she wakes again, it is dark, and Solas is in the aravel, sleeping in the lower bunk across from her. Moonlight shines across his face, turning the purple bruises under his eyes blue. Ariala sits up, cringing at the groan of the wood under her weight. Solas does not stir, so she gathers her grandmother’s blanket around her and finds a match in the dark. She lights several candles, checking over her shoulder every so often to make sure that Solas is still asleep.

Once the aravel glows with warm orange light, she begins to gather what she needs for bathing. A small pitcher, a candle for light, a comb and cloths and rose oil, a change of clothes. She puts them all in a basket and props it on her hip.

It is a long walk to the creek, but it is a warm night, and the forest does not frighten her. She takes care to make sure the blanket does not drag on the ground as she walks. Once she reaches the creek, she kneels by the boulder and strikes a match, setting the candle on the most even spot of ground she can find. It gives her enough light to set her things out, and place the blanket in the basket, so that it will not get dirtied.

She strips completely, closing her eyes as she leans forward, wetting her rags. When she wipes at her face and hands, the cloth comes away filthy. She is relentless, scrubbing at her skin until it flushes from the cold, until the rags do not come away stained with dirt. She splashes cold water over her body, skin tingling, and fights a shiver.

She cups creekwater in her palms and lifts her hands above her head, tilting her head toward the sky and closing her eyes. The water rushes over her, running over her face and through her hair. The cold leaves her gasping. She leans forward, over the creek, and fills the small pitcher she’d brought, pouring it over her scalp and her hair.

Once she is drenched, she sits up, shivering. The moonlight paints half her skin blue; the candlelight colors the other half gold-orange. She does not feel clean until she rubs her skin raw, goosebumps rippling under the relentless cold of the creekwater. She does not feel calm until she has anointed herself with rose oil, until she has worked the oil through her hair and combed out the worst of the wet tangles.

Ariala dresses, shivering, and pulls her hair up into a bun before bending down and beginning to retie her footwraps. When she is done, she sits still for a moment, resting her cheek on her knee and closing her eyes, briefly.

She is so tired.

But there is work to do.

She carries the basket back to the aravel, and lets herself in silently; a skill practiced and perfected in childhood. Solas is still on the bed where she’d seen him last—he had not even moved. She rolls her eyes, an affectionate smile curling her lips, and sets the basket down.

Feeling clean, if not refreshed, she begins to look through her grandmother’s belongings. She begins with the wooden chests underneath the bunks, lined with scraps of fabric sewn together. The contents are either travelling clothes, or boxes of small trinkets. She finds sewing supplies in one such container; empty glass bottles of fragrant oils in another. She puts the least worn clothes on the top bunk, above where she’d slept. She’ll take them back to Skyhold, have a Dalish agent leave them at a dropsite, for any wandering clan to find and use as they see fit.

Her clan has no need of them now.

Once she’s emptied the underbed storage, she turns to the trunk near the door. The hinges creak in protest, and the bunk to her right shifts. She looks to see that Solas has rolled onto his side, facing her, eyes still closed.

She watches him, waiting, barely breathing, but he does not wake.

After several tense minutes of silence, she turns back to the trunk. There are more clothes, piled atop the First’s ceremonial robe. She takes them out, every one, and inspects them. She puts them in different piles atop the top bunk: tears here, ripped seams there, mothballed clothes in a third pile. She throws none of it away. Tears and pulled seams can be repaired, stains can be washed out, mothball odor fixed with vinegar.

She finds a bunch of dried lavender wrapped in a child’s blanket next. She lifts it up, ready to set it aside, but stops at what she sees beneath it. After several moments, she gingerly sets the lavender aside and reaches in, grabbing a toy she hadn’t seen since she was a child.

She pulls out a small, half-stuffed hart, made of leftover scraps of fabric and lovingly stitched by her grandmother as a birthday present, back when she had been young enough to appreciate such toys. The hart’s multicolored face stares back at her, stitches indicating where small black buttons had once been.

She remembers throwing it on the ground as they left their campsite, almost immediately after her father’s funeral and vigil. She’d screamed terrible things at her grandmother, that day.

She’d assumed that the toy had been lost, trampled under halla hooves and left to rot in the dirt; or, perhaps, given to a child who would love it properly.

And yet it had been here all this time.

Her shoulders hunch, and she realizes that she’s shaking.

Solas’s exhale behind her is familiar; it’s the noise he makes as he is waking up. Reluctant, grumbling, half-muffled by sleep. Ariala puts the hart back in the trunk and shuts the lid, springing to her feet and lunging for the nearest bed. She sits down and turns toward him just as his eyes open.

It’s harder than it should be, pretending she hadn’t been two minutes away from a breakdown over a childhood toy. Solas squints at her, blinking sleep from his eyes. “Hello,” she says, clearing her throat.

“You’re awake,” he says, blinking again before sitting up. “You’ve been resting the whole day.” His brow furrows, mouth opening, then closing. “How are you feeling?”

Ariala wraps the blanket tighter around herself. “Fine,” she lies.

His expression falls, as if he can sense her lie, but he swallows and nods anyway. He glances down at the bed he sits on, pushing back a corner of a skewed blanket, revealing his sketchbook and a leather drawing kit. When he opens the kit’s flap, several sharpened sticks of charcoal glint in the light. A muscle twinges in Solas’s jaw as he looks up. “I am ready to draw the vallaslin when you are,” he tells her.

She exhales. “Thank you,” she says. He nods, but his gaze slides away, over the warm red tones of the aravel interior. Ariala shifts forward, moving until her legs dangle over the edge of the bed. Solas gets himself comfortable, opening his journal and setting out his tools. Ariala watches as he takes a small knife and begins to sharpen a stick of charcoal.

“What do you want to draw first?” she asks.

“Your preference,” he says, not looking at her.

“Face, then,” she says, and he nods.

“Let down your hair, please,” he instructs, still not looking at her. She does, staring at him as she reaches up and undoes the leather tie that keeps her haphazard bun in place. She sighs in relief as her damp hair tumbles down her shoulders, running her hands through it to smooth back the baby hairs. She massages her scalp and the back of her skull, wincing at the protests of sore muscles. Once her hair is arranged how she likes, she sets her hands at her sides, fingers knotting in the blanket she’s wrapped around herself.

When he has readied his supplies, he looks up. After a moment, he frowns, and with a flick of his hand summons magelights, which instantly flock to her face. They are bright, but not harsh; the glow is just as soft and warm as candlelight. “Tilt your chin up,” he requests. “Toward the light.”

She does, lifting her head just a little as her eyes fall shut, until the backs of her eyelids are painted golden instead of orange. There is no sound for a moment, before Solas sighs, and the bed across from her rustles, and his fingers brush ever so gently under her chin. Ariala inhales, stiffening, and opens her eyes. Solas does nothing but lift her chin higher, until her neck is arched. He swallows, and his hand drags across her cheek, fingertips gently tucking a loose strand behind her ear. His touch lingers.

Ariala’s breath catches.

They stare at each other in silence for several moments before Solas drops his hand. “Perfect,” he whispers. Her chest tightens. “Hold there, please.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, almost too softly to be heard. But Solas returns to his position across from her, and after forcing herself to relax, Ariala takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

She does not know how long they stay, but at some point it begins to rain. She listens to the patter of it against the window, against the roof, and all the while the scratch of Solas’s strokes fill the silence of the aravel.

“How did you become an artist?” she asks. “Josephine told me an art scholar said your murals were painted in an ancient style of the elves, dating back to Arlathan.”

Solas’s pause is only a moment long, but it is long enough. “The scholar was correct,” he says. “It was an art style of ancient Arlathan, one that took centuries to master. A spirit of Creativity taught me, and I practiced the technique when I could. My work is nothing compared to the masters of the craft.”

Now that she knows the truth, a dozen different questions come to mind, each one doing their part to undermine his excuse. If the art took centuries to master, how could he—supposedly mortal—be so good at it? How had he found a spirit of Creativity, rather than a spirit of Vanity or Pride?

How could she have ever missed the holes in his story?  

She opens her eyes and watches him, very carefully. “You use the Fade as an excuse for everything,” she says. He goes very still, staring down at the drawing, fingers tightening on the charcoal stick. Ariala watches him in silence before she says, gently, “Whatever it is, Solas, I want you to know that you can tell me.”

She doesn’t want to give away her suspicion just yet. Unlikely as it is, he might take her words for the genuine invitation they are. He lifts his gaze and holds hers. His eyes are dark in the candlelight, and the magelights show the shadows under his eyes, the exhaustion that hides in the hollows of his face.

He does not speak as he breaks her gaze and returns his attention to the drawing.

Ariala swallows her disappointment and closes her eyes again.

The aravel smells like wax, a smell that almost drowns out the lingering scents of elfroot paste and death.

Almost.

 _Mamaela_ , she thinks, throat closing up. She keeps her eyes closed and does her best to keep her breathing steady. Once the moment passes, she sniffs, bringing up a hand to wipe at the wet skin under her eyes, and resumes her pose.

She does not know how long she stays like that, listening to their quiet breaths and the sound of Solas sketching. But eventually, the stillness soothes the ragged parts of her, and her breaths deepen and slow.

“Done,” Solas says, much later. Ariala blinks herself awake, realizing she’d been half-asleep. She leans forward, and Solas turns the journal so she may see his work. Their fingers brush as she takes the journal from him.

The charcoal lines are thick, but careful, and graphite is substituted for the smaller lines. He’d drawn her with her eyes closed, and her hair isn’t crimped from the bun. Instead, her hair falls around her in loose waves, framing her face. The vallaslin is intricately drawn, branching across her forehead and down her temples, and he had drawn a larger replica of the pattern on the opposite page. Her nose is not so crooked, and her ears don’t stick out as much.

He’d drawn her to be beautiful.

Ariala lowers her hand, fingertips hovering over the page but not quite touching.

“Well?” Solas asks, just as quietly as he’d spoken before, but there is a note of—something in his voice. Uncertainty, maybe?

Ariala looks up and swallows hard. “It’s beautiful,” is all she says. His wariness softens, and he looks down at the floor, one of his hands crossing to clasp his opposite wrist. A muscle in his jaw twinges.

Ariala returns the journal to him, and he says, “Your back, then?” Once he has retrieved his journal, she takes a deep breath. Before she can doubt herself, she shrugs off her blanket and removes her tunic in one quick movement, leaving her in her breastband and leathers.

Solas does not look away from her face. Ariala breathes again, ignoring how her heart has begun to pound beneath her ribs, as if she has started sprinting rather than remove a single garment.

She exhales and turns so that her back faces him. With shaking hands, she begins to remove her breastband, untucking the edges of it and unwinding it slowly from her body. When that falls away, too, she is left bare from the waist up before him. He has not seen her like this before, naked and exposed and vulnerable; she had worn her breastband during any baths she had shared with the traveling party.

Solas’s swallow is an audible thing.

The intimacy of this moment—his quiet breaths, her hammering heart, their proximity—unsettles her. She shivers, leaning forward, as if it will prevent him from looking at her vallaslin. He cannot see her breasts, but that does not stop her from covering them nonetheless, crossing her arms over her chest. She ducks her head, wanting to look at him over her shoulder but not quite able to bring herself to do so.

“May I touch you?” Solas asks, voice low. There is no heat in his voice, though, nothing but clinical curiosity. Ariala nods, feeling her blood rushing through her ears.

The bed across from her creaks as Solas stands. Though she had granted him permission, she is still unprepared for his touch. His fingers are warm as they drag between her shoulder blades, tracing the branches of Mythal’s flowering tree. Her back arches, involuntary, and Solas’s exhale shakes as he gathers her hair and drapes it over her left shoulder. His thumb brushes over the nape of her neck, just touching the top of her vallaslin.

Ariala does look at him then, glancing at him over her left shoulder. Solas looks up from the vallaslin on her back, and he withdraws his touch, tucking his hand behind him. Despite the warmth in the room, Ariala feels colder. “I have never inquired about your back tattoo,” Solas says. “Is it meant to complement your vallaslin?”

She shakes her head. “The mother tree is also part of my vallaslin.”

His brow knots in confusion. “But—” He cuts himself off, expression smoothing as he realizes something. “I see,” he murmurs instead. His gaze returns to her back, trailing down, and his eyes narrow thoughtfully.

Gently, hesitantly, he touches the hound at the base of her spine. “What is this?” he asks.

“My grandmother added it,” Ariala says. She pauses, weighing her words. “It’s a hound. To protect me from the Dread Wolf.”

Silence. Then, without any of the bitterness she had expected, he says, “I see.”

The regret and grief in his voice catches her by surprise. She turns more fully, regarding him out of the corner of her eye, and sees him staring at her back, fingertip still lingering against her skin. After a moment, he lifts his hand and brushes his thumb under his eye. “I am sorry.”

“For what?”

“Is that not your people’s belief? That the Dread Wolf curses whoever keeps his company?”

“Well,” she says, “he _is_ a bringer of bad luck, in the legends.”

Solas pulls away, returning to the bed. After several moments of silence, she hears him start to sketch. “The Dread Wolf is just a legend to you, then?”

She cannot tell if he sounds relieved or disappointed. Still, the conversation is a useful way to distract her from her vulnerability. “No,” she replies. “Mythal exists, that’s been proven well enough. Why shouldn’t the Dread Wolf?”

His laugh is soft, hoarse. “An excellent point.”

He falls silent, then, though when she sneaks a glance at him over her shoulder, he’s staring down at the journal, hand still, the set of his mouth pensive and mournful. He does not speak or move for several long movements, and Ariala turns back around.

When he finally does speak, his words take her off-guard. “I have been thinking of Redcliffe of late,” he says.

Her eyebrows rise. “Really? You never showed an interest in it before.”

“Yes, when that future had potential to become reality. Yet it has not come to pass. Do you remember our conversation after you took the vir’abelasan?”

“Yes,” she says.

He had avoided her, after she took the Well. She’d had to seek him out. She’d found him in the rotunda, sketching chalk outlines of elven men in stylized armor, and he had not acknowledged her presence until she had wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close.

“Solas, talk to me,” she’d said, resting her chin on his shoulder, and he had sighed, bowing his head.

“You have given up a part of yourself, vhenan,” he’d told her, his voice thick with grief.

And then, afterward, when she told him that she would use the Well to make the world better, and he had scoffed. “What if you fail?” he’d asked, nose scrunching. “What if you wake up and find the future you’d shaped is worse than what was?”

“Then I live with it,” she’d said, and he looked as though she’d struck him.

“You and Dorian were exceedingly lucky in Redcliffe,” Solas says. “But suppose you had failed. What then? Would you still have, as you said, ‘lived with it’?”

“If Dorian had failed, we’d have died,” she quips.

Solas makes a frustrated sound. “A fair point. But—suppose Dorian’s spell failed, yet you managed to evade Corypheus and escaped Redcliffe Castle. Can you honestly tell me you would not have fought to return the world to what it _should_ be, rather than the broken wreck it had become? You would not have even _tried?_ ”

There’s something familiar about this conversation, but she can’t place her finger on it.

“I suppose I would have had no choice _but_ to try,” Ariala says, at last. “There was no other choice. That world… Solas, I’m glad you’ll never have to see it. It was…” She thinks of a green, flashing sky, and chunks of rock floating through barren courtyards. The red haze that had surrounded Solas and Cassandra. The double-layered intonations of their voices. How that Solas had refused to let her come near him, for fear of the red lyrium somehow infecting her.

Leliana.

Gods, _Leliana._

She has not thought of Redcliffe in some time, but now she shudders, despite herself. “An abomination,” Solas guesses, and she nods. He inhales, and she hears his charcoal drag across the paper.

“I cannot imagine how you felt in that world,” he says, later. His tone is strange, as if he’s trying to pass off his words as simple musings. But truly, he sounds as if he is testing her. As if he is expecting some particular answer. “Detached, perhaps? As if the world did not feel real?”

“Leliana did tell me something along those lines,” she says. “She said—”

She stops, thinking, and remembers: how Leliana had scowled at her, scarred face distorting grotesquely, deadened eyes sparking to furious life. _I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was real._

“She said it was real,” Ariala admits, quietly.

Solas inhales, his sketching coming to an abrupt halt. “Did you believe her?”

Her first instinct is to say _no_. Throughout the whole ordeal, Ariala and Dorian had only been focused on returning to the present, to stop the horrors they were witnessing before they’d even begun. But she’d read Alexius’s diary, brought it back to the present with her and given it to Dorian for safekeeping. She’d read how Corypheus had killed Cullen and captured Leliana as the fragile Inquisition attempted to rescue those taken in the castle.

She’d _seen_ Leliana, and that knowledge was the reason she’d tried so hard to keep _their_ Leliana from venturing down that same, dark path.

It had happened. It had existed. At some point, it had been real.

“Yes,” she says, finally.

“Yet you were willing to sacrifice that world to achieve your goals,” he says. She cannot tell if that note of emotion in his voice is despair or admiration.

“There _was_ no world to sacrifice, Solas,” she says. “There was nothing left of it, except utter ruin and scavengers. There were no spirits, only demons; no life, only barren wasteland. The Breach encompassed the entire sky. The world was _Blighted_ , Solas.”

“I did not mean to imply disapproval,” Solas say. His exhale shakes. “No. On the contrary, Inquisitor, your words have been a greater comfort than you know.”

She blinks, looking over her shoulder to stare at him. “That was a very strange conversation, Solas.”

He laughs again, but there’s no humor in the sound. “I can imagine. Forgive me, it was but a stray thought.” She nods to herself, turning back to face the wall and closing her eyes.

She does not know how much time passes before the sounds of charcoal on paper cease. Solas takes a breath and says, “Done.”

Ariala glances down at the bedspread, where her breastband lies discarded beside her. She keeps her gaze on the furs as she takes her hair in hand and begins to gather it at the top of her head, exposing the full, naked length of her back. Solas’s inhale is audible behind her, but the sound does nothing to alleviate the anxiety prickling in the back of her throat.

The feeling does not abate until she has put on her breastband and pulled on her tunic. She turns, holding out her hands, and carefully takes the journal from him. He’d drawn her back on the page opposite to her face, and left the backs of each clear from drawings or sketches. But that is not what arrests her.

It is the intimacy of the portrait.

She had thought he would only draw the pattern—it is complicated enough to warrant its own drawing—but he had drawn _her_. She can see the shadows from the candlelight play over her body, can see the muscles in her back and shoulders. There are dimples in her lower back, just above her buttocks. Her elbows are angled, pressed close to her body, revealing the position of her hands without showing them.

It looks _real_.

Ariala swallows. “You’re very good,” she says, voice hoarser than she’d like.

“Thank you,” he returns, quietly.

She keeps the journal, but lifts her gaze, meeting his eyes. Solas glances away and, with a simple gesture, extinguishes the magelights, making the room far darker than before. The candlelight bathes half his face in shadow, half in light.

 _Don’t_ , he had asked—begged—her. _Please._

But he has also called her _vhenan_.

“May I sit with you?” she asks. His eyes widen, but he nods. She does not miss the hard jerk of his throat as he swallows. She stands, bringing the blanket with her, and sits beside him. Their knees touch, a touch she neither presses upon nor withdraws from. When she looks at Solas, he is staring at his hands, a muscle in his jaw twinging over and over again.

“Look at me, Solas?” she asks, gently. He inhales and lifts his head, eyes dark in the dimness.

“I owe you my thanks,” she says, finally. “You’ve seen me at my worst these past few weeks. Despite the terrible things I’ve said, the things I’ve _done_ , you haven’t let it change your opinion of me.” Her laugh is soft, self-deprecating. “Or at least, if it has, you haven’t shown it. And I don’t… I don’t know how to thank you for that.”

“There is no need,” Solas says. “You were— _are_ —grieving. I understand.”

 _An apology, then_ , she thinks. Her heart begins to race, pounding hard and erratic beneath her ribs. She moves closer, taking his chin in hand and leaning forward. Solas exhales harshly, body stiffening, and she thinks, _be brave._

She presses her forehead to his, closing her eyes and breathing in. He smells of wax, and sweat, and earth. There is a trace amount of stubble under the pad of her thumb. The touch grounds her, makes it easier to remember that he is just a man like any other, no matter his age, his knowledge.

His mysteries.

She presses her forehead harder against his, her eyes squeezing shut. Solas is deathly still, his body radiating tension. She does not want to open her eyes and confront the reality waiting for her.

She does not want him to slip through her fingers, not yet.

“Solas,” she whispers. “I’ve been so cruel to you.”

Solas sucks in a breath. She opens her eyes and pulls away, dropping her hand and resting it in her lap. His expression is one of shock; whatever he’d expected her to say, it hadn’t been that. _Be brave_ , a small, distant place in her heart sings. _Be brave, be brave, be brave_.

Solas speaks before she can continue. “It is no less than what I deserve.” His voice is quiet, tone matter-of-fact, as if he is only stating the obvious, when he does the opposite. It makes her sit up straighter.

She shakes her head slightly. “Why do you think that?” she asks fiercely, meeting his gaze. He blinks, surprised at the intensity of her tone, then looks away. She grabs his shoulder. He swallows, a muscle in his jaw twinging. She persists. “ _Why_ do you think that, Solas? Why do you think you deserve to be treated cruelly?”

He does not answer, and though he is not looking at her, she can see his eyes gleaming wetly in the candlelight. She releases him and leans back, letting loose a long sigh. “You don’t,” she murmurs. “You don’t, Solas, and I’m sorry if I ever made you think that you did.”

Solas makes a low, wounded noise in the back of his throat. He lowers his head, covering his eyes with his right hand, the other fisting atop his knee. His whole body trembles. Ariala watches, swallowing a lump in her throat. She has never seen him so… uncomposed before. It is unnerving. Unfamiliar.

Ariala looks up at the ceiling and inhales, gathering her courage and tightening the blanket around her. “You had as much a say in our relationship as I did,” she finally admits. “You had a right to end things between us. Much as I would’ve liked an explanation, you don’t owe me one. It was unfair of me to act otherwise.”

She swallows, glancing at Solas from the corner of her eye. He has not moved. _Be brave, be brave, but above all be careful._ “But I want you to know, Solas,” she starts. Her heart is racing, pounding so hard she feels almost lightheaded. “Whatever it is… whatever you think… I’m willing to listen. If you fear my reaction, or, or think that I will hate you… I promise I won’t.”

The sound that leaves him is hoarse, raw, more akin to a sob than anything else. He lowers his hand from his eyes and lifts his head, but looks away from her, denying her his eyes. She can learn his thoughts from watching his eyes, his face, but not his body. “You do not know what you offer,” he whispers.

“Don’t I?” she asks, her voice just as soft. Slowly, carefully, she raises her hand and rests it over his clenched fist.

Solas shudders at her touch, as if she has caressed him rather than touched his hand, and his shoulders bow under some invisible weight. She says nothing as his fist uncurls, fingers turning to cup her palm. He lifts her hand, palm-up, and—

He kisses her fingertips.

Ariala does not dare to breathe as his kisses trail lower. His mouth is soft against her knuckles, against the top of her hand, the center of her palm. He kisses the heel of her hand and keeps her hand pressed to his mouth, his eyes squeezing shut.

It is too much.

Ariala exhales, withdrawing her hand. Solas’s fingers curl. “You can’t keep doing this, Solas,” she says, folding her hands in her lap. “You can’t—you can’t leave me, tell me it’s over, then act like this. You can’t—call me vhenan one moment, and then pull away the next. It isn’t fair. To either of us.”

Even as she speaks, she thinks of how she had kissed him, just a handful of days ago. How his voice had broken in the middle of his plea. _Don’t. Please._

_I have not been fair, either._

And suddenly, her earlier bravery is gone. She shrinks into herself, staring down at her hands, resting useless in her lap, regretting that she had even spoken at all. She wants to leave the aravel, wants to pretend the past hour and a half has not happened, as if she had never brought up Crestwood.

It is consuming, almost suffocating, this anxiety, this need to _flee._

Ariala inhales, standing up quickly, intent on heading for the door. But if she leaves the aravel, then she would see the graves, and the grove, and the empty aravels—

She feels the familiar well of tears, and lifts a hand to cover her eyes out of instinct. Her exhale shudders, more a heavy sigh than a breath, and she walks forward, intent on leaving this place, of disappearing into the woods and dealing with her thoughts alone.

Solas catches her before she can flee. His touch is gentle, warm, his fingers curling around her wrist. Ariala lowers her hand, staring ahead, unseeing. “Don’t go,” he whispers.

She is aware of nothing but his fingertips on her skin, anchoring, and in the back of her mind she hears _Losing you would—_

Ariala turns back. Solas stands, expressionless, though his eyes betray his uncertainty. She does not move when he leans toward her, lowering his head, coming just short of pressing their foreheads together. “Could you forgive me?” he asks, roughly. “Could you forgive me my cowardice?”

“Your cowardice?” she echoes.

He does not answer. Instead his hands come up, framing her face between them. His breath is warm on her cheek. She watches as he squeezes his eyes shut. “You deserve the world,” he rasps. “You deserve— _everything._ I cannot give that to you.”

“I don’t want the world, Solas,” she says. “I don’t want everything.” Her voice softens. “I want you.” He exhales, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, and she continues, ignoring the sinking feeling in her gut, the instinct that she is only making this _worse_. “But only if you stop thinking of this as—as a mistake. As something to be regretted. I will _not_ put myself through that any longer. I have dealt with enough.”

“Yes,” he says. His eyes open, glassy with pain and doubt. But he looks at her like he had in Crestwood, when he had said _you are perfect exactly as you are_ , as if she is something precious, cherished.

His look wraps a fist around her heart, robbing her of breath. She does not give herself time to doubt. The blanket slips down her shoulders as she reaches for him and closes the scant distance between them. She wraps a hand around the back of his neck and rolls onto the balls of her feet, pressing their foreheads together, her other hand fisting in his tunic as he cradles her face between his hands.

The force of her sudden movement makes him step backwards, legs bumping against the bed. He sits, and she goes down with him, one knee resting beside his legs. She ends up sitting astride him, her hands moving to his shoulders for balance. Solas stares at her, wide-eyed, and she feels his fingers tremble against her skin.

She rests her forehead against his again, and he closes his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. After a moment, he pulls away, his hands leaving her face. She does not have time to doubt, to grow wary of their intimacy, to think he has changed his mind _again_ , because his arms are wrapped around her, hands splayed across her back, and his face is pressed to her collarbone. Ariala curls forward, resting her cheek atop his shoulder, one hand going to cradle the back of his neck and the other wrapping around his shoulders. She can feel his heartbeat under her palms—the heavy, rapid pulse of life. She can feel his tears wetting her tunic, but he makes no sound, save his breathing.

His hands spasm against her back, fingers curling in her tunic.  

“Stay with me,” she whispers.

“I am here,” he says, voice muffled and hoarse.

 _For how long?_ she wants to ask, but she holds her tongue. She will not reveal her knowledge of his secret, not yet. She listens to his heartbeat, her fingertips pressing harder against his skin. “Stay with me,” she says again.

Again, he whispers, “I am here.”


	4. ma'harel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wakes in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dino: this document is so goddamn large that finding my place is like being in a costco trying to find my dad pre-cellphone days  
> dino: i just keep scrolling but "Nope, this is the pasta aisle, already checked that"  
> me: u know, i have a document outline so you can navigate it easier. do you have it open?  
> dino: nope  
> dino: we scroll through 80k like men
> 
> happy new year!
> 
> ma'harel - "you lied to me"

She wakes in his arms.

Ariala tries to open her eyes and succeeds, but only briefly. The sunlight of an early morning streams from the window, slanting pale gold across her grandmother’s bed and the wooden floor. It will be a few more hours yet before the light travels to where they sleep. Solas sleeps on his side, his head resting on her chest rather than his pillow. One of his arms is draped over her stomach, and the other is under her pillow. Her legs are bent, and his thigh is tucked underneath her knees, as if he had sought as much of her touch as possible in his sleep.

Her own hands had been tucked against her chest, but she soon moves them, shifting so her left arm is wrapped around his shoulder, and her right hand rests on his bicep. Her eyes flutter shut, the heavy call of sleep still too strong to resist, but she is just awake enough to turn her head and kiss his brow.

Solas’s thumb draws a gentle circle over her hip.

She sleeps.

She dreams of being chained to a floor in Suledin Keep, with only a spike of red lyrium in the corner as company. It grows and grows, reaching for her, ravenous, its whispers echoing with a thousand thousand voices. Before it can reach her, the Anchor flares, and a warm, gentle breeze takes her from the prison cell of Suledin Keep. It melts the stone walls and takes her to someplace calm. Someplace safe.

When she opens her eyes, she is sitting on the creekbank, her back against the boulder. She wears the roughspun tunic and leathers, and she feels more comfortable—more at home—in these clothes more than she has in any armor or dresses she’d worn for the Inquisition. The night sky above her is clear, sprinkled with stars, and she sees the constellation of Fenrir, watching guard.

The Anchor flares, casting green in the darkness, but there is no pain. As she glances down at it, she smells smoke. She glances up, alarmed, but the plumes of smoke drifting into the sky are white, wisping, the smoke of campfires rather than forest fires or arson. She stands, feeling watched, but when she looks over her shoulders she sees nothing.

She walks through the trees, falling into the old patterns of a hunter’s gait, crouched and silent. She has no bow, but she ensures she leaves no trail; no wet, loamy soil sticks to her bare soles to leave imprints in the earth, and no branches are snapped by her passing.

When she breaks the treeline, she sees the aravels of her clan, but there is laughter, there is music, and the campfires are blazing. She can see shadows around the fires, but cannot make out individual silhouettes.

She creeps closer, and a moment later hears Vunora’s loud, barking laughter, distinct and vibrant. Suddenly, her heart is _pounding,_ hard and heavy beneath her breast. Ariala stands to her full height and sprints, stopping just at the edge of camp.

The silhouettes have formed, and she presses shaking fingers against her mouth when she sees her clan. There—Adhlean, playing his beloved lute, with Ellowen and Eolas on the drums. Shenuvun and Mira have joined others in the dance, and Davhalla is singing, her high, lovely voice floating above the camp. Vunora sits with Lyra and Rhonan, the other new parents. Rhonan is holding his little girl, Tanaleth; Lyra is clapping Siona’s hands along with the music; Vunora is breastfeeding her son, Mathalin, but tapping her foot along with the beat.

Vunora is the first to notice her. “Ariala!” she cries, eyes lighting up. “Lethallan! Everyone, Ariala’s returned!”

The music stops, and as one, the clan turns. When they see it is her, a joy more potent than their celebration infects them all. They rush toward her, calling _lethallan_ and her name and warm greetings. She hugs them all, laughing, tears in her eyes. Vunora approaches her, still holding Mathalin, who is whimpering, his eyes screwed shut. Ariala’s grin widens as she joins her friend’s side. “You never told me you had a child,” she says, only half-accusatory.

Vunora shrugs, her grin faltering. “I know.” After a moment, she leans forward, resting her forehead against Ariala’s. Ariala closes her eyes and breathes, fighting back tears. When Vunora pulls away, she is no longer smiling. She asks, “Can you forgive me, Ariala?”

_Yes. Yes, of course, lethallan, of course I forgive you._

“Can you forgive me for not writing you?” Ariala asks, swallowing hard. Vunora laughs, reaching out with one arm and pulling her in for a fierce hug, trapping Mathalin between them. When they part, Ariala smiles down at Vunora’s son. “Who’s his father, lethallan?”

Vunora nods, shyly, to a barefaced elf she doesn’t recognize. He is standing somewhat apart from the crowd, watching her with a wariness on his face that she recognizes. Solas had looked like that, in Haven, when she’d said _I’d like to know more about you, Solas_. “His name is Darrian,” she admits. “He’s from the alienage in the city.”

She had buried a number of people whose features were too decayed or too mutilated to distinguish. Darrian must have been one of them. Deshanna had not told her of him, she thinks; shame burns hot in her throat a moment later, because she knows she had not asked about Mathalin’s father, either.

Ariala looks him over, noting how his choppily-cut shoulder-length coppery hair gleams orange in the firelight, then leans over to whisper in Vunora’s ear, “He’s very handsome.”

Vunora laughs her agreement and winks at her. “I wanted a pretty babe, lethallan, and a pretty babe needs a handsome father.” She smiles at Darrian from across the clearing, then glances down at Mathalin. Ariala does, too, tucking her chin on Vunora’s shoulder, fingertips brushing over him and his swaddling. Mathalin regards her with wide, bewildered eyes, then lifts his hand to his mouth, curling his fingers against his chin. He has Vunora’s dark eyes, but there are silken strands of wispy reddish-brown hair on his scalp.

His ears are long, slender, and intact. Perfect.

Ariala blinks, and the tears that had been stinging her eyes slip free, trailing down her cheeks. Mathalin gurgles, his tiny hand reaching up, impossibly small fingers brushing away one of her tears. Ariala laughs, feeling stronger, and holds out a finger, which he grasps. “Thank you, da’len,” she murmurs to him.

“Lethallan,” Vunora says, gently, “why are you crying?”

Ariala looks up and smiles through her tears. She leans forward, pressing her forehead against Vunora’s for a heartening moment before pulling away. “I’m so glad I got to see him,” Ariala says, voice choked with emotion. Vunora smiles again, brushing away her tears, and embraces her once more. Ariala holds her close.

When they part again, Vunora gently takes Mathalin from her. The celebration had resumed during their conversation, and the moment Ariala turns away there is Ellowen, laughing and reaching for her, pulling her into the dance. It is easy, falling into the old patterns, turning to the notes of Adhlean’s lute and keeping with Eolas’s beat. Ellowen is grinning, the forget-me-nots woven into her dark brown hair falling loose with her movements, and as Ariala spins she catches sight of a human girl, about Ellowen’s age, sitting down and watching the dance with hesitancy written all over her round face. She also wears forget-me-nots in her honey-blonde hair.

“Sarah!” Ellowen calls out. “Join us, vhenan!”

The uncertainty in Sarah’s eyes vanish, and she stands, reaching for Ellowen, who pulls her close and kisses her. Ariala laughs, gaze trailing away, where she sees Vunora and Darrian sitting side-by-side, smiling down at their son. Mira and Shenuvun have stopped dancing to sit by the fire, holding each other close; Mira’s face is tucked into his neck, and Shenuvun’s hand sits low on her waist, his mouth pressed to the top of her head. Adhlean and Eolas are calling out ribald jokes over their instruments, and Davhalla is dancing in front of them, her feet a blur of motion in time with the drumbeats. Her heels stir up dust as she tries to one-up Anuon’s own dancing, and though she is red-faced from drink and exertion, she is laughing.

 _They’re happy_ , she thinks, stepping away from the dance and clapping along with the beat.

But—something is missing.

She turns back to the forest, where the shadows seem to move. She still feels watched, still feels as if someone is missing. The Anchor is bright in her palm, its magic warm and buzzing, and she glances down at it before looking back at the forest, squinting her eyes. She can _just_ make out something, but it’s shifting, near-imperceptible, and she would doubt her own intuition if it had not just shifted under her scrutiny.

She takes a breath and takes a chance. She lifts her hand, stretching it out toward the shadow, palm facing up. She waits, breath caught, her gaze locked on the silhouette she can’t _quite_ make out.

For several long moments, nothing happens. She swallows, her disappointment an unexpected weight on her shoulders, and she starts to lower her hand. But then—it moves.

Solas emerges from the darkness, cast in shadow and the blue of the moon. His brows twitch together as he looks at her, and then he bows his head, lowering his gaze to the ground. He stops just short of her, and she sees a finite tremble run through his shoulder. A muscle in his jaw twinges.

She takes his hand.

His inhale is sharp, short, surprised, and Ariala brushes her fingers under his chin, lifting his head until he is looking at her once more. A muscle spasms in the corner of Solas’s mouth, and his gaze flits from her face to her hand, clasped and warm in his. She waits until he looks at her once again, and then she says—

“Do you want to meet them?”

“If I may,” he whispers. She nods, unable to help her smile, and gently begins to pull him back, out of the shadows and into the golden-red light of the campfire. Ellowen is the first to greet him, hand-in-hand with Sarah, and once they have welcomed him, the rest of the clan follows. Ariala watches as they swarm him, asking a thousand questions, shouting greetings and jokes.

When Solas looks over his shoulder at her, bewildered, she can only smile back, tears in her eyes. Anuon claps him on the back, pulling him back, and Ariala lets her clan pull him toward the fire.

Someone tugs on the end of her tunic. She glances down, and there is Mahanon, watching her with solemn brown eyes. There is no gash across his throat, no orange in his eyes, no evidence of what she had done to him. Here, he is young, and barefaced, and still allowed to be a child.

A soft noise of grief escapes her and she kneels at once, reaching out and pulling him close. He hugs her fiercely, and she blinks at the sky. When she pulls back, she touches his cheek, half-smiling as she fights back tears. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “Mahanon, I’m _so sorry._ ”

Mahanon watches her with dark brown eyes; she remembers how orange had faded into brown the instant before she slit his throat. He’d fought the demon for her, and she’d repaid his trust with death. Her hands lower and she presses her lips together, swallowing hard. They watch each other for a long moment, and then Mahanon steps forward, pressing his forehead to hers, a brief touch. Ariala smiles even as a sob hiccups out of her, and she watches as he steps away and runs into the crowd. She reaches after him, but he doesn’t look back, and soon he is lost among them.

Ariala lowers her hand, notices that it is trembling, and presses it against her mouth.

“Don’t mind him,” says someone. She looks up and sees Lyra standing behind her, with Siona perched on her hip. Siona sees Ariala and tucks her face against her mother’s neck, hiding her face, and Lyra laughs. “Ah, Siona, don’t be like that. This is Ariala. She’s a member of the clan. Can you say _falon_ , da’vhenan?”

Siona peeks up from under her curtain of hair. “Hi,” she mumbles, immediately hiding her face once again. Ariala laughs wetly, standing up. She does not touch Siona, but smiles at her instead. After a moment, she looks back at Lyra.

“What did you mean?” she asks. “About Mahanon?”

Lyra grins at Siona, reaching up to brush some loose flaxen hair from her head. “He’s a young one, still,” she says, looking up. “Still a wisp, really, but he wanted to be a part of this. He didn’t say anything because he’s still learning how to… well, respond to dreamers. Small d.”

Ariala blinks at her. “What are you talking about, Lyra?”

Siona reaches for her, her torso twisting away from her mother, and Ariala takes her, albeit distractedly. Lyra smiles at Ariala and nods toward Solas, who is still surrounded by her clan. “You’re dreaming, Ariala. I’m only telling you this because you’ll be awake soon anyway. It’s almost sunrise.”

 _I’m dreaming?_ she thinks, bewildered. Yet the moment she thinks it, she can see the differences. The campfire colors are just a little off; the halla are more gray than silver; Anuon is wearing blue, and he _hated_ blue. Just as she thinks them, the dream shifts, correcting itself. She watches as the campfire becomes more orange than yellow, as the hallas’ hair whitens in the moonlight, as Anuon’s tunic switches from blue to beige and green.

She blinks, taken aback, and looks at Lyra. “If you’re not Lyra—what are you?”

“I am Wish. A minor desire spirit, like most of the others.” Lyra smiles at her. “Ask him about it, if you like.”

Ariala turns, and there is Solas, walking toward her, finally free of her family’s attention. He stops, momentarily, at the sight of her holding Siona on her hip—does he recognize her as the same girl he’d cradled to his chest, just a handful of days ago?—and his gentle smile softens into something even fonder. Siona laughs, her hands tangling in Ariala’s hair, and Ariala laughs back as she extracts the girl’s fingers from her curls.

She looks up only to see that Solas has reached them. “Solas,” she says, “this is Siona.”

Solas glances at the child, and recognition dawns. “Ah,” he says, and swallows. “Yes. Hello, Siona.”

“Sowas,” Siona says, clapping her hands together.

Solas laughs, and quickly he lifts his thumb and wipes under his eye. “Yes. Yes, I am Solas.”

“Sowas,” Siona repeats, smiling, revealing gums that bear only two pearly bottom teeth. The next instant she twists, a high whine escaping her throat, and she lifts her arms. “ _Mamae!_ ”

Lyra is there in a moment, hushing Siona as she takes her from Ariala and whisks away, toward the campfire. Ariala watches them go, a lump in her throat thickening as she observes the small discrepancies in the camp. Theron’s hair changes color, shifting subtly to a browner shade than his original jet black.

Her grandmother is not here, either, and the disappointment is a heavy, poisonous stone in her gut. Still—if what Lyra was saying is true, Solas had… arranged this. Somehow, he had managed to gather spirits to re-enact her clan, to re-enact one of their celebrations, almost perfectly.

And it was—it was for her.

She turns, swallowing hard, and Solas notices. He pauses, reaching out to touch her opposite elbow so his forearm lies across her torso. “Are you well?” he asks, voice quiet. Ariala glances up at him and swallows again, giving him a small, watery smile. She lifts her hand, brushing her fingertips across his jaw, and he closes his eyes.

“Come with me,” she whispers. Solas glances over his shoulder, then nods, letting her take his hand and pull him into the shadows of the aravels, where it’s quieter, further away from the noise of dancing and music. He leans against the aravel, and she stands in front of him, watching his face intently.

“You did this,” she says, though there is no accusation in her voice. She glances away, toward where the light of the campfire bleeds into the shadow that surrounds them. “You—you created this entire dream. For me?”

When she looks back at him, he is staring down, one of his hands crossed to clasp his wrist. “I,” he starts, and before she can say anything he hurries on. “ _Ir abelas,_ I should have asked you, but I thought—if I have overstepped, I can—”

“Solas,” she says, cutting him off. She takes his chin in hand, tears spilling down her cheeks, and rolls onto the balls of her feet, pressing her forehead to his. “Thank you,” she whispers. When she pulls away, Solas’s gaze darts down to her mouth. The glimpse lasts less than a moment, but it makes her heart race. She swallows hard, glancing down at his lips in turn, her thumb pressing into the dimple of his chin.

She is not the one who moves first, this time.

The press of Solas’s mouth against hers is unexpected, but not unwelcome. His kiss is soft, chaste, just a brush of lips against hers, light as a mothwing. Ariala sighs, her eyes fluttering shut, and her hands move to rest atop his shoulders, one curling to cup the back of his neck. Solas shudders at the touch, and his hands wrap around her waist, pulling her flush against him. She lifts herself up onto the balls of her feet, pressing harder against him, and one of Solas’s hands slip into her hair, cupping the back of her head to deepen the kiss.

His tongue presses against the seam of her mouth, and she parts her lips, letting him in, letting him taste her. He groans, fingers on her scalp tightening, his other hand drifting down to cup her ass. Ariala presses against him and he stumbles back, bumping into the aravel, making them part but he doesn’t stop, he only guides her head to the side and begins laving her throat in kisses. Ariala stares blindly at Fenrir, watching over them, its outline made of a thousand thousand stars.

“Solas,” she whispers, giddily, feeling like a teenager with her first crush, fumbling behind the aravels. Solas lifts his head and she kisses him, this time, smiling into the kiss as she sees his eyes flutter shut. She captures his bottom lip between her teeth, pulling gently, and he half-stifles a groan, his fingers spasming against her.

Both of his hands are holding her head, now, fingers buried in her hair. They part for breath, but their distance is a finger’s breadth; he leans his forehead against hers, and she can feel his breath, warm on her cheek. A thin line of saliva connects them still, a strand of silver in the dark. His eyes are closed, and his lips are red, their color visible even in the night. Ariala leans forward, ready to kiss him again, but he stops her, pressing a finger against her mouth. He lifts his head, listening, and only then does she notice the hush that has fallen over the camp.

She glances aside, half-expecting the entire clan to be watching, but she sees nothing. She looks back to see Solas smiling. “Ah.”

“‘Ah’?” she echoes.

Solas kisses her again, chaste but lingering. When he pulls away, his mouth drifts to brush the sensitive tip of her ear. “I have asked another friend to make an appearance,” he says. “She is here.”

She furrows her brow, turning her head, ready to go see, but Solas catches her, pulling her flush against his chest. She laughs, and Solas grins, boyish and toothy—a rare, precious smile, one she loves dearly.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers. She obeys, letting him gently turn her and guide her by the hand back to camp. He comes to a stop and drops her hand, moving to stand behind her, and tells her to keep her eyes closed. She does.

She hears footsteps on the grass, a gait she recognizes, and her brow furrows. She starts to open her eyes, but stills when she feels warm, callused hands cup her face. Her eyes snap open.

Her grandmother stands before her, smiling. “Hello, dearest one,” she says.

Ariala blinks, once, and begins to weep. “Mamaela,” she gasps, lunging forward.

Deshanna laughs wetly, catching her in a fierce embrace, and Ariala presses her face into her grandmother’s shoulder, unable to stop her tears. Her grandmother is warm, solid, and her very presence comforts her. Ariala hugs her for a long, long time, her eyes squeezed shut, unable to stop her tears and feeling as if her heart is about to burst.

When they part, Ariala holds her at an arm’s length. The spirit wearing her grandmother’s face is perfect. Deshanna wears the Keeper’s robes, resplendent in gold and emerald, her hair braided intricately, just as Ariala had arranged it. Everything is perfectly recreated, even down to the silver at her temples.

It feels as though seeing a spirit wear her face should be a cruelty. Instead, it is a comfort.

“Mamaela,” Ariala breathes, sniffling, and Deshanna smiles again, her hands coming up to brush away her tears. Ariala cannot keep herself from glancing at Solas, who is watching them with a small smile on his face. When she reaches for him, he leans forward, and her hand cups his jaw before sliding around to hold the back of his neck. She raises herself up onto the balls of her feet, pressing their foreheads together for a brief instant. After she pulls away, she turns to Deshanna.

Her grandmother smiles and extends her hand, which Ariala takes and squeezes, hard. “I’ve missed you,” she says, softly, swallowing hard.

“Walk with me,” Deshanna says. She turns to Solas, briefly, and lifts her hand to touch his cheek. Solas closes his eyes, briefly, but when he opens them moments later he smiles. His gaze slides to her, and he steps away. Deshanna turns back and squeezes Ariala’s hand before letting her go. “Come, da’vhenan.”

They leave the camp, and Deshanna calls forth a wisp of light to guide their path. Ariala wraps her arms around herself, lifting her gaze to the sky, her eyes tracing the stars of Fenrir. “I never expected to see her again,” she admits, quietly. “Thank you.”

Her grandmother—no, the spirit—lifts her hand and rubs slow, soothing circles into her back. Ariala swallows again, wiping away stray tears, and says, “Solas said you were a friend of his. Are you… like Wisdom?”

“We are friends, yes, though he and Wisdom were much closer,” the spirit says. “He sought me out after Wisdom’s death. I am Comfort.”

“Comfort,” Ariala whispers, and when she blinks, more tears fall in silence. She closes her eyes, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. Her next breath is hitched. Comfort stops, allowing her some time to recover, and begins to walk again once Ariala has straightened and lowered her hand. “So… what do I do? Do I ramble and you listen? Do you impart some life-changing advice that I may or may not remember when I wake up?”

Deshanna smiles, and the sight makes Ariala’s chest ache. “I am here to listen, should you wish,” she says, gently. “Solas has not followed, da’vhenan. What you say, you say to me alone.”

Ariala nods, but she does not speak, not until they reach the creek where she had prepared her grandmother’s body for death. Ariala stops before the water and sits, and the spirit sits beside her. Ariala glances at her out of the corner of her eye and closes her eyes. “I can almost pretend you’re really her,” she admits, in a whisper.

Comfort touches her hand, and warmth floods through Ariala—she thinks of snuggling under her blankets, listening to the rain on an aravel roof, the feel of grass under her bare feet. Her grandmother’s hugs. Ariala swallows hard, opening her eyes and blinking back tears.

“Would you like me to change form?” Comfort asks, stroking her hair.

“No!” Her protest is immediate. She shakes her head. “No. I just… I miss her. I miss _them_.” She glances up, once, and then returns her gaze to her hands, pressing her lips together. She cannot stop her tears, though she manages to stifle her sobs. She tries to collect herself but can’t, and eventually Comfort sighs—just like her grandmother did—and guides her down, until her head is resting in her grandmother’s lap, and her grandmother is carding her fingers through her hair.

“They’re gone,” Ariala sniffles. “They’re gone and I—I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t leave them, I _can’t_. I… I can’t.”

“They will be with you,” Deshanna says. “ _She_ will be with you. That is why you have the vigils. You tell stories of the dead so they will always be remembered, no matter where you travel or how far you go from home. And when you tell their stories, they live another day.”

“But I’ll forget them,” she whispers. “I’ll forget how my grandmother smiled, or the smell of halla after a rainstorm, or Vunora’s laughter, or…”

“You knew them. You loved them. They were here, and so were you. Is that not more important?”

Ariala cannot speak. She closes her sore eyes, swallowing hard, thankful that her grandmother cannot see her tears. Deshanna strokes her hair, gently humming an old lullaby from her childhood, and something small and pained unclenches inside her chest. She does not stop her sobs, this time. She lets her tears course down her cheeks and stain her grandmother’s breeches.

“I wish,” she gasps, “I wish they were still here. They shouldn’t have been killed. They shouldn’t have been—they deserved better. Our _people_ deserve better.”

“I know, da’vhenan,” her grandmother says, and Ariala closes her eyes when she feels her bend down to kiss her head. “I know.” Ariala sits up, turning to look at her grandmother, who touches her cheek and pulls her into a fierce embrace. Ariala clutches at her, weeping, as her grandmother rocks her gently. They hold each other for a long time, and after what feels like hours, her grandmother begins to whisper the age-old mantra: _I give my grief to the care of the Mother_.

Ariala shudders, but it is only when her tears have paused that she begins to murmur the mantra with her grandmother. When the waves of grief subside at last, and she sits back on her heels, her grandmother smiles and presses her forehead to Ariala’s. “They will be with you, my dearest,” Deshanna tells her. “Do not forget that.”

Ariala exhales, and Deshanna pulls away. Ariala gives her a watery smile as she nods. “I’ll try,” she promises. She falters for a moment, her smile falling, as she becomes aware of other sensations. She can feel warmth at her back, and tangled sheets on her waist and legs. _No,_ she thinks. _No, please, just a little longer._ But the sensations grow stronger and stronger, until the forest begins to fade away.

Her grandmother leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. Ariala closes her eyes, drawing comfort from the familiar gesture. “Will I see you again?” she asks.

“Da’vhenan,” her grandmother whispers. “Wake up.”

— ✦ —

Her awakening is gradual. She first becomes aware of the birdsong outside, and then the warmth of Solas’s arms around her. When she breathes, her nose is stuffed, and her eyes are sore and tender. She lifts a hand, pressing a fingertip to her wet cheeks. When she blinks, more tears slip free, running down her cheek and the bridge of her nose to dampen her pillow.

Her chest aches, but it is a softer pain, the pain of stretching sore, rarely-used muscles. She feels… lighter. Her grief is—quieter. She swallows thickly, lifting her head, watching the sunlight stream through the window, highlighting the motes of dust floating in the air. Solas’s breath is warm against her neck, and when she moves, he makes a noise of sleepy protest, his arm tightening around her waist. Their legs are tangled, and the blankets are halfway off the bed.

She extracts herself slowly, carefully, and when she turns Solas’s brow is furrowed. She crouches down and stretches out her hand, smoothing the lines with her thumb. She cannot resist dragging her hand down to cup his cheek, her thumb smoothing across his cheek. Solas sighs in his sleep, a grumbling, reluctant, half-muffled sound, and a few moments later his eyes flicker open. She pulls her hand back, but he catches it, faster than she’d expect of a man who had just awoken.

“Ariala,” he slurs, “stay,” but his eyes are already falling shut. Ariala smiles and gently extracts her hand from his, standing up and walking to the door. Her hand hovers over the knob, and she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment before she gathers her courage and opens the door.

The camp is empty, as she had expected, but it still hurts. There is no burning campfire, no laughter, no drumbeats, no clan mates preparing breakfast. The halla are sleeping in the shade of the grove. The valley is silent and overcast, the light harsh despite the gray. The aravels are mostly gone, replaced with blackened, scorched husks with torn and missing sails. Ariala steps down from the aravel steps, toes digging into the soil, and walks to the grove. She runs her fingers over the bark of each and every tree, remembering who is buried underneath their roots. They are gone, she knows, but they nourish new life.

The thought is a cold comfort.

She sits before Deshanna’s tree, tucking her legs close to her chest and wrapping her arms around her shins, resting her chin on her knees. She does not speak, or think, or weep; she listens to the wind, and stares at the dark, freshly upturned earth of her grave.

Solas had kissed her. She had let him. When she closes her eyes, she can still imagine it: his hands cradling her head, his fingers knotted in her hair, the press of his body against hers. The heat of his mouth on hers. The taste of him.

She opens her eyes, feeling her cheeks and ears flush. Her hand lifts and she carefully presses her fingertips to the sensitive skin under her jaw, where Solas had kissed her, his lips hot on her skin. She sighs and drops her hand, shifting so her forehead rests on her knees.

“I’m an idiot, Mamaela,” she mutters. Deshanna had specifically told her to be careful around Solas, and the first thing she does is let him kiss her senseless.

She hears hoofbeats in the grass, and lifts her head to see the halla doe and her calf stepping through the grove. The doe raises her head to watch Ariala for several moments, then approaches her. When she lies down, knees tucking themselves under her body, she presses against Ariala’s back. The calf sits by Ariala’s other side, mimicking his mother but resting his head in her lap. He bleats softly, and Ariala lifts a hand to scratch the place between his horns.

The doe lifts her head, pressing her nose against Ariala’s cheek. Ariala smiles and closes her eyes, taking comfort in her steady warmth. “Thank you,” she whispers. The doe honks in response and lowers her head, her eyes falling shut.

Ariala sits before her grandmother’s tree for several long minutes. But the old fatigue is back, weighing her down, and the cool summer morning with the dew wetting her pants is not where she wants to be. So she forces herself to sit up. The calf bleats at her jostling him, the sound of it almost pleading, but when she stands he moves over to tuck himself against his mother’s side. Ariala gives both mother and calf a parting scratch before returning to the aravel.

She lets herself in silently, only to find that Solas is still asleep, though his arm is stretched out over what little space remains in the bed, hand palm-down on the mattress, as if he had felt the bed for her at some point. Ariala carefully takes his hand in hers and lifts it up, sitting on the mattress beside him and setting his hand at his side. It is enough for him to sigh in his sleep, and she watches as his bleary eyes open.

“Vhenan,” he says, the word half-mumbled and half-sighed. Ariala’s heart flips painfully in her chest. He reaches for her, and she takes his hand, silent. “Vhenan, vegara’haman, sathan.”

She says nothing, trying to mentally piece together what he’d said. But he does not give her time to translate, tugging her toward him. “Vegara,” he murmurs.

She lies down beside him and his resulting smile is sleepy, unfocused. His hand moves to wrap around her torso, his fingers spreading over the small of her back, a touch so intimate she shivers. He pulls her close, sighing as he closes his eyes, his arm tight around her. It is only moments before he is asleep again. She doubts that he will remember this when he wakes properly.

He may not, but she will.

She swallows hard, shifting closer to him. Her toes press against his warm shins, a habit from childhood she hasn’t ever been able to break, and watches him. There’s enough daylight that she can see the scatter of freckles across his nose, his cheeks. The shadow of stubble on his jaw has darkened, and there’s some on his scalp as well.

Before Crestwood, she would have reached out, traced the line of his cheek with her thumb, pressed kisses to his cheeks and nose all while claiming she was just counting his freckles. She remembers him waking like that, once, and laughing as she kissed the underside of his jaw and whispered a number into his skin. She’d never been able to finish counting them before he’d pulled her close and kissed her properly.

But that was before Crestwood. Before Wycome. Before she’d learned that he was an ancient.

 _He still loves me_ , a part of her thinks. _We can have that again_.

 _He still lies to me_ , another insists. _We can never be the same_.

She does not know which path to take. She does not have the energy to think about it, not now; she is warm, and heavy, and her heart feels numb inside her chest. She closes her eyes and breathes, letting the heaviness settle over her, letting it drag her back down to dreamless rest.

When she wakes again, her nose is still stuffed, and her eyes still hurt, but she feels lighter.

They’ve shifted in their sleep. She’d turned onto her front, and Solas is on his side, pressed against her. She had somehow managed to use him as her pillow; her head is tucked in the space between his chin and his throat, and her cheek rests on his bicep. His other arm is draped over her torso, hand resting lightly on her hip. Her arms are twisted awkwardly, one trapped underneath her body and the other pressed against her face, palm turned inward. Some of her hair had gotten stuck in her mouth, and she’d drooled a little, too.

Eugh.

Despite her discomfort, she is very warm.

She’s also very tired. Still. Somehow.

She almost falls asleep again, but then she becomes aware of Solas’s hand on her hip moving up. His fingertips slide, slowly, gently, over the expanse of her back, a touch so intimate she has to suppress a shiver. Solas exhales, lifts his hand, and begins to stroke her hair. She feels his head turn, feels him move in what little space the aravel bed affords them, feels him press a kiss to the top of her head.

She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath. Solas freezes, his hand still in her hair, and she turns her head away from him, lifting her hand to discreetly wipe at her mouth. When she’s certain all evidence of drool has been cleaned up, she twists to face him, pushing herself up to rest on her elbows. He flinches as feeling returns to his arm, but he still stares at her in silence, wide-eyed. Several moments pass before he thinks to pull his hand away from her hair.

“Ah—good morning,” he whispers, swallowing.

As she watches him, she thinks of last night—how they had held each other, draped across the bed, and spoken of nothings. She had whispered _stay with me tonight_ against his shoulder. He had gone still, and murmured his hesitance into her hair.

She had said, “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

Solas had held her tighter, and he had stayed.

And now… here they are.

“Good afternoon,” she replies. He glances at the sunlight’s angle and laughs his agreement. The sound of his chuckles, punctured by a snort, makes her chest ache. She makes a split second decision and leans forward. Solas meets her halfway, pressing his forehead against hers. She closes her eyes, savoring his nearness, as he brushes tangled strands of hair from her forehead and tucks them behind her ear.

“Thank you for the dream,” she says.

He pulls away, just slightly, his brief amusement fading, softening into affection. He sits up, regarding her, leaning back on his elbows. “You are welcome,” he replies. “I had—I had hope it would bring you some comfort, seeing them again.”

Ariala smiles. “It did,” she whispers. He smiles again, but it looks pained, his hands twitching by his side. She sits up properly, turning so she faces him directly. She crosses her legs under her and clasps her hands in her lap. “Solas. We… we should talk about the kiss.”

His throat jerks as he swallows, but he does not look away from her. “Ah. Yes.”

She glances at her hands and takes a breath. _Be brave_. She presses her lips together and looks up, gathering her courage. “Has anything changed for you?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches, and his expression falls. Her heart sinks alongside it. She looks away, taking a breath. “That’s what I thought.”

“Ariala—”

“Why did you kiss me if nothing’s changed?” she asks, harsher than she’d intended. “I told you in no uncertain terms I wouldn’t put myself through this again, and I _meant_ it, Solas. Is this a game to you? Run hot, then cold, see how I react?”

“ _No_ ,” he protests, his voice sharp. His next words are gentler. “No, of course not. You are right, it was unfair of me, and I apologize for my weakness. Things have always been… easier for me in the Fade, but I will try to—”

“The Fade. The _Fade_.” She laughs, harsh and bitter. “It’s always about the Fade with you.” She feels her emotions well up inside her, too many to name, and her expression crumples. She turns her face away to hide it. “I wish you would just _trust_ me, Solas.”

She wants to go back to last night. Back when she was not the Inquisitor, and he was not an ancient elf, when they had held each other and simply breathed in the quiet of the night. When they were allowed to simply _be_.

“It is not a matter of trust,” Solas says. “It is a matter of…” He trails off, and his swallow is audible. “It is a matter of cowardice.”

“Cowardice,” she repeats.

“Yes.” His voice is hoarse.

She squeezes her eyes shut, composing herself. Once she gathers her strength, she turns and sees Solas resting his head against the aravel wall, his eyes closed.

“It seems I cannot stop hurting you, no matter what I do,” he whispers. He opens his eyes. “Ir abelas.”

Her whole body sags with her exhale, and she looks away. She stands without a word and reaches for her unstrung bow, set near the doorway. It takes her only a minute to string it, and she bends down to retie her footwraps, loosened during the night. Solas says nothing as she cleans her teeth and makes her preparations, and at last she looks up to see him watching her. His face is expressionless, but his eyes show his pain.

She has always been able to read his eyes.

“I’m going to the forest,” she says. “I just… need some time alone. To think.”

He nods. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, a little. We have plenty of salted meat, but I’ll look around while I’m out, see if I can’t find any berries or fruit.”

He nods again. “I will prepare breakfast for your return, then.” He does not move to stop her when she stands and opens the door. As she steps outside and shuts the door behind her, she cannot decide if she is relieved or disappointed. She takes a moment to breathe, letting her head fall back and rest against the door, closing her eyes.

 _It seems I cannot stop hurting you_. An echo of his words at Crestwood— _I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you._ Her heart aches at the memory, and she clenches her jaw. After a moment, she takes a breath and straightens, heading for the forest.

She does not bother to mask the sounds of her footsteps, or even keep track of where she is going. She sees plenty of deer who bolt at her approach, but no fruiting trees, or berry bushes. Her footsteps eventually lead her to a clearing, and with a jolt she realizes this is where her grandmother had found her, after Ariala had realized… well.

She looks over her shoulder, where her footprints are visible in the long forest grass. Follow those footsteps, she knows, and she will go back to the camp. Back to Solas.

She half-smiles and shakes her head. “I really do run from all my problems, don’t I, Mamaela?” she asks, her voice a whisper.

Birdsong is her answer.

Solas will not tell her his secrets, not on his own. She will have to confront him, to learn his true motives, what he intends to do after Corypheus is defeated. But gods, she doesn’t know _how_. She doesn’t know how Solas would react, whether it would be better to speak with him alone, here, or at Skyhold, where she would have support if she needed it.

She doesn’t even know if he would tell her anything, or just slip away during the night.

_What do I do?_

She takes a breath, glancing at the tree directly before her, its lowest branches too tall for even Bull to reach. She thinks of her vallaslin, her Mother’s mark, the symbol of Mythal held dear by all of Clan Lavellan—a flowering tree, an anchor in an uncertain world, a provider of guidance and justice.

She drops her bow in the grass and kneels, bowing her head and closing her eyes. “Mythal, Mother of All,” she whispers. There is no ceremony she need perform, not like with Ghilan’nain, for her prayer is for herself. “Mother, I come to You seeking guidance. You know my uncertainties, my weaknesses, and you have taken them into Your care.”

The Well stirs in the back of her mind, roused by her prayer. _Unworthy_ , it murmurs, almost lazy in its condescension.

Ariala grits her teeth. “Mother,” she says, louder, “Mother, I ask that you grant my heart courage, and my mind clarity—”

_The Mother does not hear you, quickling child._

“And my mind clarity,” she continues, “for the task I must do.”

_She does not know you._

She blinks, the Well’s words unexpectedly stinging, and sits back on her heels, staring at nothing. She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and says, “You’re wrong.”

She can _feel_ the Well’s disdain, dripping cold down the back of her neck, like someone had pressed ice at her nape. She shivers, then clenches her jaw again and stands, regarding the tree. It looks impossible to climb, but she has done impossible things before.

She steps forward, running her hands over the grooves in the bark, searching for natural handholds. She has not climbed a tree since she was a child, but—she banishes her uncertainty, her hesitance. Once she finds a handhold, she begins to climb.

“I am not unworthy,” she tells the Well, lifting herself higher. “I have never been unworthy of my heritage.”

No matter what Abelas said, or the Well, or even Solas, she is and will always be one of the People.

 _You are a shadow of what once was. You are cut off from yourself, and all that remains is a lonely, wretched thing, crying out in the darkness._ Different voices splinter from each other, echoing the last word, _darkness—darkness—darkness._

“I am more than the People’s past,” she tells the Well. “I am Ariala of Clan Lavellan. I am one of the People, no matter what you say.”

 _An ant is not a dragon, no matter what the ant says_.

Ariala grimaces, the muscles in her arms straining as she pulls herself up. “Except I’m not an ant, you bunch of assholes, so whatever shitty comparison you were trying to make doesn’t even _work_.” She reaches for a handhold, gripping it tight, but it splinters beneath her fingers and she scrambles to keep steady. She catches herself just in time, and, gasping, glances down to see how far she’s climbed. The ground isn’t _too_ far down, but she doesn’t want to fall anyway, because she knows that would be an unpleasant landing.

So she looks forward, toward her goal, and continues climbing. “My people walked thousands of miles to reach their new home,” she grits out, pulling herself up another few inches. The bark scrapes at her heels, but her footwraps protect her from splinters or pain. “They had suffered as slaves for generations, lost everything, and still endured. They established a second kingdom, and were voyagers, artisans, warriors.” She grunts, reaching the first branch, using it as a footrest to propel herself higher up. The fir’s branches and needle-like leaves scratch at her hands, her cheeks, but she does not stop. “Even after our land was taken from us, we have endured. I am _proud_ of my blood. You cannot shame me for being proud of how far the People have come.”

 _Never again will we submit_ , she thinks.

She keeps climbing, even as the Well falls silent. “I have met so many of the People,” she tells it, reaching the fifth branch and continuing on. “City-elves, Dalish, wanderers.”

 _Shadows_ , says the Well.

“People,” she argues, “and any single one of them is more worthy of being of the People than any ancient elf.”

The Well bristles, its awareness, its _otherness_ heavy on her nape, but there are faint notes of sensations she doesn’t recognize. When it speaks, it seems there are less voices in its response. _You do not know what the People have lost, and so you speak these words out of spite and ignorance, no better than a child._

Well. ‘Child’ is better than ‘ant,’ she supposes. Making progress.

“We lost our immortality,” she says, pulling herself higher. The branches are thinning out, now, and the wind is stronger. “We lost our gods, our lands, our magic. And you know what? We endured. We’re still here, while you all are dead or sleeping or trapped in a pool of magic water. So you can shut up about that _unworthy_ bullshit, because I’m sick of it. I have loved Mythal above all others all my life. I chose the Mother’s mark as evidence of my devotion to her. I performed her rites perfectly, respected her Temple and her sentinels despite their insults, and freely chose to drink of the Well, knowing what it entailed. I am _absolutely_ worthy of her favor and of the Well. You may have wanted some arrogant ancient elf, but you got me, so either put up with it or shut up.”

She reaches the top of the tree at last and finds the sturdiest branch, resting her full weight on it while she leans against the trunk. The forest and valley stretches out before her, a wave of deep and emerald green. The sky is gray and clouded, evidence of an oncoming rain, but it’s still beautiful. The wind undoes her bun and blows her hair back, whipping it around her. She manages to grab her leather band, still somewhat tangled in her hair, and wrap it around her wrist before the wind can blow it away.

“I don’t care about what we’ve lost,” she tells the Well. “I care about how far we’ve come, and how far we can still go. I will help the People, with or without your assistance.”

The Well does not reply. Of course not. Suddenly drained of the adrenaline and determination that had been fueling her, Ariala closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. She lets the cool air fill her lungs until her chest strains, then exhales, her shoulders slumping. She carefully lowers herself to straddle the thickest branch, letting her legs dangle in the air as she watches the forest canopy.

The Well is silent, though the weight of its awareness still lingers, chilling the back of her neck. Ariala leans against the trunk of the tree, watching the forest. A flock of birds takes wing, and their flight is followed by a distant rumble of thunder. It’ll rain, soon. She’ll need to get to the camp.

She looks down, and her stomach hollows at the distance between her branch and the ground. She can barely see it through the branches, though she knows she’ll have to be careful. There’s a small flash of lightning, far away but still bright enough to be spotted in the corner of her eye, and she makes her decision, carefully getting to her feet as she leans against the tree for support.

She is about halfway down when a shrill, piercing noise fills the air. She cringes at the noise, her previously steady grip loosening, and it is only through clinging to the trunk that she does not fall the rest of the way down. She breathes, hard, trying to quiet the flutter of fear that tightens in her stomach. She listens, trying to place where she’s heard that sound before, and then she remembers.

The wards.

Someone is at their camp.

 _Shit_ , she thinks, and resumes her descent, though it’s much more hurried, now. By the time she reaches the lowest branch, the wards’ alarm has silenced itself, though her heart still pounds beneath her ribcage, hard and nervous. She glances down at the short distance between the ground and takes a deep breath, pushing aside her fear and jumping. She lands hard on her feet and rolls, though it does not diminish the pain in her ankles.

She has to take several minutes to breathe and flex her feet before she is able to stand. She takes her bow in hand and turns toward the direction of the camp. Her footprints are still visible in the grass.

Ariala takes a deep breath and starts to run.

She’s out of breath by the time she reaches the edge of the forest, but what she sees chills her blood. She crouches down, wide-eyed, as she watches five old Templars—the flaming sword stamped on their breastplates, all gleaming in the light—stand in front of Solas, who stands rigid, his hands folded behind his back. “Shit,” she hisses, moving forward, trying not to be seen.

Templars. What are Templars doing here?

Just as she thinks it, she remembers Myra, telling her how Wycome had sent for retired Templars from Ostwick to deal with Mahanon. Gods, she’d forgotten all about that.

Shit. _Shit_.

One of them wears a red cloak, distinguishing himself from the rest. He’s the only one of the Templars who’s talking, if his hand gestures are any indication. He’s in full plate armor, but he’d removed his helmet, providing her an opening.

She watches Solas stiffen, and his head tilt, though she can’t hear what they’re saying. The lead Templar nods to himself and turns away, just slightly.

An instant later, he lifts his mailed fist and backhands Solas, hard enough to send him sprawling.

Ariala’s mind blanks, and all she sees is red.

She lifts her bow and notches an arrow. No regular hunter’s arrows could ever hope to dent plate armor, much less puncture it or seriously hurt the wearer.

Her arrows are not those of a regular hunter’s.

They are solid silverite, designed to cut through red lyrium-reinforced armor, crafted by the best arcanist in Thedas. This man will die before he even knows he’s been hit.

The Templar looms over Solas, who is struggling to rise, and plants an armored boot on his back, keeping him in the dirt. Ariala kneels and raises her bow, never taking her gaze off the cloaked Templar. After a few heartbeats of careful aiming, she looses her arrow.

He drops. She has another arrow notched before he even hits the ground, and aims for the first Templar to react to their leader’s death. The arrow hisses as it leaves her bow, and she watches the second fall, an arrow spearing his protected throat.

Two down.

Three more.

The others draw their swords, shouting in alarm, and Ariala does not give them time to recover, to find shelter. Another arrow is drawn, aimed, let loose. Another Templar falls. All the while, one thought pulses through her, hot and angry. _They touched him. They touched him. They touched him._

_They will not have him._

Three Templars down—two more, and these two have taken cover behind the aravels. Clever, but it won’t save them. Ariala lowers her bow and rises from her crouch, sprinting across the space to the clearing. Solas rises as well, and he staggers when she meets him. She tosses her bow aside and reaches out, steadying him, kneeling with him as he collapses in her arms. He is pale, breathing hard, and there is a cut and several bruises on his temple. His cheek is bathed in his blood, and the shoulder of his tunic is stained red, too.

The fury roars inside her. _They touched him. They touched him!_

_They will die._

“They hurt you,” she seethes. Solas opens his mouth, but he winces in pain and does not reply. She lowers him to the ground, gently, and bids him to stay with a whisper. He nods, mutely, and she picks up her bow, turning toward the aravels, the same dark, furious purpose as that night she’d executed the murderer in the alley fueling her.

“Ariala Lavellan!” one Templar calls out, his voice deep but his tone betraying his fear. “I beg of you, listen to me!”

 _No_ , her instinct snarls, roiling in her gut. _No, I won’t, you hurt him, you hurt him._

But her reason prevails, staying her hand. They are not Wycome; the one who had hurt Solas is dead. She will listen, at least until they prove her wrong. “You have one chance,” she replies, raising her voice so it carries, though she does not lower her bow. “Put down your swords and come out, hands on your head. Slowly.”

One does, black-haired and less grizzled than the other Templars she’d shot, his hands raised behind his neck. The second one does not reveal himself until the Templar shouts his name in a short sharp bark. “Will!”

Then the second Templar walks out from behind an aravel, his face contorted in fury, blond hair flaxen in the sunlight. He looks older than his companion, bearing wrinkles and gray stubble, with lines around his eyes.

He looks at her with nothing but hatred, and some part of her itches for him to move, to give her a reason. She thinks of Solas’s blood, and wonders darkly if she would even need a reason.

“Kneel,” she says, nodding to the grass in front of her. She lowers her bow, but keeps her arrow drawn, her eyes narrowed. They do, slowly, and once they are still she asks, “Who’s the leader here?”

“You killed him, you knife eared bitch,” Will retorts.

“Will,” his companion snaps again, before he refocuses on her. “He… he’s dead, ma’am. We’re all retired, but I was his right hand, back when he led the Circle.”

“Ma’am,” she mocks. “Never been called that by a human before.”

The black-haired Templar wets his lips. “The citizens of Wycome asked us to clear out the abomination that resided here. We were supposed to—”

“I know,” she replies. “He is dead.”

“Then our business here is concluded,” he rushes out. “Let us gather our dead, and we will leave at once.”

“She’s harboring an _apostate_ , Cal,” Will hisses. “We can’t let them stay.” He turns his gaze toward her, eyes cold and hateful. “We’ll come back just to drag you back to Wycome to face justice for your murder of Willem Booth. The apostate you illegally harbor will be taken to Ostwick Circle, to face either the brand or the sword.”

Her gaze snaps back to the older Templar. Insults, she can tolerate. Hatred, she can understand. But threats against her, against Solas—

“You will never touch him again,” Ariala hisses, lifting her bow.

“No, _please!_ ” The other Templar screams. He lifts his hands and holds them open toward her, beseeching. “Please, don’t. He’s just being an idiot. I swear on my life, I will ensure Ostwick’s Templars never return here. I swear on Andraste. We won’t bother you again, ma’am. Just— _please_ —let us collect our dead, and return to our homes. We have no reason to be here anymore. _Please_.” His voice shakes, but his eyes are steady. His hands do not tremble, and he keeps his chin held high, his throat exposed.

She thinks of Mathalin’s cut ears. The clanmates she’d buried, too mutilated to recognize. Deshanna’s poisoned crossbolt wound. Mahanon, driven to possession by what he had witnessed. The drunk in Wycome, slurring insults. The alienage, its vhenadahl and empty tenements. The forty-two trees marking the graves of her family. Little simpers of _rabbit_ and _knife-ear_ at Halamshiral.

Solas’s blood, dripping down his face.

“Please,” the Templar says.

She clenches her jaw and shakes her head, just slightly. They were not Wycome, and the Templars would not be able to find them again after they’d left for their city. Against her better judgement, she lowers her bow and stalks toward Cal. He stares up at her, wide-eyed, and though his fear is muted in his gaze, he cannot hide it completely.

Good.

“Before you go to Ostwick,” she says, “you will return to Wycome, and you will tell Wycome’s people that the abomination has been dealt with. You will tell them that Willem Booth has already received justice, as he was executed for being complicit in Clan Lavellan’s slaughter. You will tell them that if they _ever_ gave a _shit_ about justice, they will find every man, woman and child who had _any_ level of involvement with the unlawful massacre of Clan Lavellan and deliver them into the custody of the Inquisition. Do you understand?”

He nods, a short sharp jerk of his head.

“Good. You have fifteen minutes to get out of my sight,” she says. “Starting now. Leave your weapons behind.”

The Templar sags with relief. “Thank you,” he murmurs, getting to his feet. His companion does the same, though he never looks away from her. Ariala steps back, her arrow still notched, and watch as they lift their fallen brothers and carry them to the horses. She allows them rope to tie down the dead Templars, and once the Templars’ bodies are prepared, she watches them ride away.

A raindrop falls on her nose.

Only when they are out of sight does she let herself relax. She lets her bow fall to the ground and turns toward Solas, who had stood beside her and watched the Templars’ retreat in silence. His dried blood is stark against his pale skin.

She does not move, not until he turns his head and meets her gaze. He must see something in her expression, because he reaches for her, and she meets him, letting herself get pulled into an embrace. She buries her face in his shoulder and he holds her, silent. Only then does she realize she is shaking. He exhales, one hand wrapping around her waist to hold her closer against him, the other lifting to hold the back of her head.

She closes her eyes, breathing in the scent of him, woodsmoke and blood, as more raindrops fall, landing on her head and shoulders. Solas does not move.

“How do you feel?” he asks at last.

“Empty,” she replies, the word muffled against his tunic. He sighs and she pulls away, lifting her hand to gently press against the cut on his temple. He flinches away from her touch, though she cannot tell if it is out of shame or pain.

“I will heal it soon,” he tells her.

“They Smited you, didn’t they?” she asks, and he nods, glancing down. She swallows, her fingertips trailing down to his cheek, turning his face so he looks at her. “Let’s get that cleaned, okay?”

He nods, and follows her into their aravel. She lights candles as the sky darkens outside, as it rumbles with thunder. The rain pounds on the aravel roof as she wets the rag and sits beside Solas, carefully wiping away the blood. His skin is smeared pink once she pulls the rag back, and she wipes that away, too, frowning at the gash across his temple, at the bruises that discolor his cheekbone. Solas doesn’t notice; he’s staring resolutely at his hands in his lap.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asks, once she’s done. He hesitates, just for a moment, then rolls up his sleeve, revealing an ugly reddish bruise on his forearm, shaped like a handprint. In that moment, she wishes she had killed every Templar, surrender be damned.

“I will heal it, once the Smite has worn off,” he tells her, quietly. “There is no reason to be concerned.”

“You were hurt,” she says. “That is reason enough.”

He looks at her at that, eyebrows raised, and she says, “However I had to, remember?”

Solas swallows, hard, but he does not look away. The old uncertainty returns, weighing heavy in her chest, but before she can retreat, he says, “I do.” He reaches up, but catches himself halfway, and returns his hand in a fist at his side. He looks away, and Ariala looks at her hands.

After a moment, Solas says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not killing those men.”

Ariala does not speak for a long time. Solas sits silent beside her, unmoving. Finally, she looks up from her hands and stares at a space in front of her. “There’s been enough death here,” she admits, voice hushed. She doesn’t feel as if she is lying, this time; the grove outside is evidence enough of her words. And without her anger propelling her forward, she just feels… nothing. Empty.

Gods, she’s so tired.

She closes her eyes, tilting her head back, letting it _thump_ dully against the aravel wall. She listens to the rain for a long time before she finally says, “I let them go because they weren’t Wycome. But I should have killed them. He threatened us, Solas. He threatened _you._ ”

Solas says nothing, and she turns her head, studying his profile in the gray-blue light. His stubble is even more pronounced, now, and though it looks black in certain lights, it’s auburn when she shifts around and regards his stubble from another angle.

He finally notices her movement and, quirking an eyebrow, says, “What are you doing?”

“Are you growing your hair out?” she asks.

His inquisitive look immediately turns sheepish, and his cheeks and ears flush a faint pink. Her fool heart flips at the sight, even when he coughs slightly and turns his gaze away. “Ah, no. I neglected to bring enough shaving cream with me. I will shave once we have access to an inn with such supplies, or at Skyhold.”

“We probably have something in another aravel,” she says. “I can check for you once the rain lets up.”

“That would be—excellent. Thank you.”

Silence descends once again, and she finds herself watching him watch her. She clears her throat, looking away, her hands raising to tuck loosened strands of hair behind her ears.

“I’m glad they didn’t hurt you too badly,” she says at last. “If I hadn’t come when I did…”

“I am well,” Solas assures her. “I am well, Inquisitor. Do not dwell on what might have happened, please.”

Her chest aches at his use of _Inquisitor_ , even though she knows full well that he has not— _will not_ change his mind. His use of her title should be good. It keeps him distanced from her, and her from him. It’s professional. It will lead to less pain, in the end, once they leave the campsite and return to the cold of Skyhold.

But she doesn’t want distant, or professional. Even after knowing the full extent of his lies, even knowing that he will live and love long after she is dust, she still wants him. Just him.

Gods, she’s a mess.

In the quiet that follows, her stomach growls, loud and unabashed. She feels her face heat and she presses her palm against her abdomen, as if her simple force of will would quiet the sound. Solas smiles, a bit ruefully, and her face grows hotter. “Sorry,” she mutters.

He shakes his head. “No. I apologize,” he says. “I was in the midst of preparing a meal when our visitors arrived. They were… inconsiderate of the fact we have not yet eaten.”

She snorts at the image. “I _bet._ No, it’s okay. We can get something after the rain lets up.”

“Did you find anything in the forest?”

“No. But I didn’t look, either.” She pauses, debating whether or not she should tell him about what had happened with the Well. It has been silent since she yelled at it, but she does not know if her words had had any impact.

After several moments, she decides against telling him about the Well. Instead, she looks toward the door. “I don’t think it’s raining too hard yet,” she says, rising to her feet. “Let me try to find the shaving stuff while I still can. I’ll be right back, okay?”

She waits until he nods before heading to the door and slipping outside. The rain is just misting, now, though she doesn’t doubt that it’ll get worse as the day progresses to evening. The halla have disappeared, probably gone off to the forest to find shelter. She closes the door behind her, stepping off the tiny staircase and eyeing the aravels.

The unbonded adult Dalish had all shared aravels together; there had been enough of them that they required two aravels, as opposed to the customary one. If she remembers right, Clan Lavellan had had twenty-two aravels in total.

Four remain now, including the one on its side, the one meant solely for food storage, and her grandmother’s. The rest are skeletal frames of burnt wood, blackened, jagged fingers made from aravel hulls reaching to the sky. One that had stood yesterday is now a pile of black wood, and another had collapsed under its own weight. Ash and splintered wood are within each frame, the only remnants of her family’s homes.

Ariala looks away. She half-jogs across the clearing, bounding up the three steps of the hunters’ aravel and letting herself in.

Darkness greets her. Where her grandmother’s aravel is warm, welcoming, the colors of the hunters’ aravel are muted, grayed by the sky outside and the darkness. A pillow had been placed over the window, blocking out most of the light. The air smells musty, stale; evidence enough of how no one has lived here for a while.

The thought makes a lump well in her throat, and she distracts herself from her grief by finding a candle and lighting it. The single light is more than enough to illuminate most of the aravel, though some parts are still shadowed. She straightens and, with a quiet grief blooming in her heart, takes note of every detail of a life left behind—crumpled sheets, unfolded blankets, edges of tunics poking out from the underbed drawers. Adhlean’s lute rests atop the lone made bed, the first lower bunk on her right. Its neatly tucked sheets and folded cover blanket are a stark contrast to its neighbors.

Ariala smiles, though she has to fight the lump in her throat. Adhlean had always liked being orderly and organized, as meticulous about his living space as he had been with managing who had access to his lute.

Her exhale shakes, and she sits down on the bed, wincing when it creaks under her weight. She takes the lute in hand, gingerly strumming its strings, closing her eyes when she accidentally strums a few familiar notes of one of the clan’s celebratory hymns. Her throat closes and she glances at the ceiling. After several long moments spent in silence, she sighs, sets aside the lute, and stands, beginning her task.

At first, she does not find much. There are the expected old leathers, well-worn and well-loved tunics, tucked in with bars of sweetly-smelling soap—undoubtedly from Wycome, based on their labels alone. There’s a basket of bathing supplies in one of the drawers. More baskets filled with dried herbs—all for healing, none for food. A third small basket in an end table, containing nothing but soft clean woolen pads, for the women’s monthlies. Finally, she finds a shaving scuttle with an intact bar of shaving soap, along with a brush, though the bristles have not been cleaned of soap residue from prior uses.

It will have to do.

The rain had intensified while she had been in the aravel, going from a mist to a steady downpour, and even after sprinting the short distance between the aravels she is soaking wet. Her clothes and hair stick to her skin, but her smile is triumphant as she hands Solas the shaving scuttle and brush.

“My thanks,” he says. “I retrieved my razor, but managed to escape the worst of the rain. Would you like some time to see if there are any clothes here that might fit you, so you may change?”

She blinks, ready to decline, but then trickles of rainwater run down her back and her temples and she shivers. She nods and kneels before one of the drawers, one she knows holds her grandmother’s old clothes. Once she selects a soft blue tunic and soft brown leathers, Solas turns, allowing her time to peel off her wet clothes and change. She undoes her bun and wrings out her hair with a spare cloth. The clothes are oversized for her, but it’s nice to be in something dry.

The tunic smells like lavender, like her grandmother.

She swallows hard, closing her eyes.

Ariala opens her eyes, drawing herself out of her reverie, and clears her throat to let Solas know she is dressed. He turns and regards her, his expression blank and unreadable.

“Do you have a looking glass?” he asks, and she shakes her head. His lips purse, and he says, “Ah. That is unfortunate. I neglected to pack one for the journey.” She arches an eyebrow, ready to question his claim—he rarely, if ever, forgets things when he travels with her, and now he has admitted to forgetting _two_ things—but then she remembers that she had given him an hour, if that, to pack. She nods instead, holding her tongue. Solas offers her a brief, self-deprecating smile as he begins to work the shaving soap into a lather with the brush. “I trust you will inform me if I miss any places?”

“I could do it for you,” she says, and he stiffens, his lips parting in surprise. His throat bobs in a swallow, and too late she realizes how intimate such a thing would be. She glances away and mutters, “Or not.”

“Actually, that would be ideal, if you are indeed amenable.” When she turns back to him, he offers her the razor, hilt-first, and she takes it, careful to ensure their fingertips don’t touch. Her chest is tight as she watches him offer her the scuttle, which she holds in her other hand. Wordlessly, she sits on one of the beds, and he eases himself to the floor below, sitting between her splayed knees. She sets the scuttle in her lap—he had warmed water while she dressed, it seemed—and dunks the brush in the water, bringing it up to work the shaving soap into a warm lather.

“I’m surprised you just don’t use magic to stay clean-shaven,” she says, as she begins to drag the brush over his scalp, coating his skin in the thin white lather. She presses her thumb to the nape of his neck, to keep him still, and does not miss the slight shiver that passes down his back, between his shoulder blades. The sight makes her heart flip.

 _I am such a hypocrite_ , she thinks.

“That is certainly an option, but I prefer the physical act. It is… a comforting routine.”

“I see,” she says, then falls silent, focusing on shaving his head. She soon understands what he had meant; there is something mesmerizing about pulling the knife toward her, watching clean lines emerge between the soap and his shaved skin. She nicks him a few times, always apologizing profusely whenever it happens, always reassured with an assurance of _it is no matter, Inquisitor._

She is about halfway done when Solas takes a breath. His shoulders flex visibly under his tunic, and she peers over his shoulder to see that he has fisted his hands in his lap. “What is it?” she asks. “Did I hurt you again?”

His laugh is but a huff of breath. “No. No, I am fine.” He takes a deep breath, and his following swallow is audible. “I… I must tell you something, and I am uncertain how to proceed.”

She waits, nervous anticipation making her hands shake. Her heart pounds under her ribs, pulsing in the tips of her ears. Finally. Finally, his chance to prove that she’d been right in waiting for him to reveal his secret on his own.

“We have time,” she says at last, when Solas says nothing. She puts the razor aside and rests her palms on his shoulders. She can _feel_ his heartbeat under her palms, erratic, anxious. His breaths are shallow, but steady, contrary to his near-frightened heartbeat. She holds her tongue, pressing her thumbs into the knots of muscle at his shoulders, rigid from tension.

Solas exhales, his shoulders slumping as the knots give way under her pressure. “Ariala,” he whispers. “I am—I…”

His throat closes up before he can finish. She remains quiet, letting him gather his thoughts. His muscles bunch and release under her hands, flexing, and when she looks over his shoulder she sees that his hands are fisted in his lap, white-knuckled. His eyes are squeezed shut.

“Solas,” she says, gently, “you—”

“After Corypheus is defeated, I will leave Skyhold.”

She stills, and her heart pounds _harder_ , making her almost light-headed. She pulls her hands away, ignoring how they tremble. She had wanted him to tell her the secrets he was withholding from her but—not like this.

 _Why?_ she wants to ask him. _Why?_

She presses her hand to her mouth and closes her eyes, feeling like there is smoke in her lungs, preventing her from breathing properly. Her heart feels too big for her chest, painfully constrained. Of course. Of _course_ he would leave.

Everyone does.

“Inquisitor?”

She takes a deep breath, lowering her hand and opening her eyes. Solas has turned to face her, worry in his eyes, which look dark blue in the gray light. He lifts himself up to kneel before her, placing his hands on either side of her hips. He opens his mouth, brow creased, but she shakes her head, stopping him before he can speak. “Stop,” she tells him, and despite herself she cannot stop her small, wry smile. “I can’t have a serious conversation with you when half of your head is covered in soap.”

Solas starts to reach up toward his head, but catches himself halfway. His exhale is a huff of breath, a small, pained laugh, and he lowers himself again, turning until his back is once more to her. It is only when he is safely turned away that she allows herself to press her wrist to her nose. She takes the razor once more and bids him to tilt his head back. She does not speak as she shaves his head, choosing to concentrate on shaving him without nicks or cuts. Once all stubble is gone, she takes a cloth set by her side and pats his head dry, making sure to wipe away excess soap. When she is done, Solas runs his hand over his scalp, feeling for missed areas.

Once his hands lower, she asks, “Good?”

“It is excellent,” he says, and she smiles faintly at the praise. Solas looks at her over his shoulder, and offers a small smile. “Thank you.”

She almost smiles back, but then she catches sight of his bruises, purple and black in the candlelight. Her heart lodges in her throat, and she lowers the shaving scuttle, lifting her left hand to gently press her fingertips against the discolorations. He flinches away from her touch with a slight pained noise, and instantly she draws her hand back, murmuring apologies. The bruise, given time to bloom, is much larger than she’d initially thought; it stretches from his temple to cheekbone, almost reaching his jaw.

“I should’ve been here,” she tells him, her voice just below a whisper. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to protect you. If I hadn’t run off—”

He turns fully and takes her hands in his, lifting himself until he is kneeling. He does not look away from her face. “I am well,” he replies, with a gentle insistence. “I am well. It will fade.” She swallows and lowers her gaze, falling silent. “Talk to me,” he murmurs. “What are you thinking?”

“About?”

He only looks at her.

Ariala pulls her hands away and stands, moving away from him. She closes her eyes and runs her hands through her hair, trying to collect her thoughts, trying to ignore the anxiety pooling in her chest, her gut, making her hands shake and her breath come in uneven rasps. “What do you want me to say, Solas?” she asks at last, turning to face him. He’s sat down on one of the beds, his hands in his lap, watching her.

The bruise on his face breaks her heart. If she had not run off, like she always does, she could have protected him.

She turns away again, picking up her discarded leather band and putting it between her teeth. She gathers her hair with both hands and pulls it into an unruly bun atop her head, tying it quickly. It slumps down to the back of her head almost at once, a handful of strands falling out of place to frame her face. With no other distraction, she crosses her arms and faces him.

“It’s your choice,” she says at last. “We have no claim on each other, Solas. You’ve always been able to come and go as you choose.”

It is not the answer he had expected; the tension in his expression, in his shoulders, relaxes, and he lowers his gaze. Her heart races, thudding hard against her sternum with every beat. She leans against the wooden frame of the bunk bed, watching him carefully. “But I thought you wanted to study the orb.”

Solas glances away, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “I do,” he says, though he still does not look at her. “Of course. I did not mean to imply I would leave immediately; I would like to see the orb recovered first.”

Ah. That’s what he looks like when he lies to her.

She cannot fathom what he would do with an artifact of such power (free the gods? worse?), but now she knows his goal. Now she knows what she must try to prevent. She doesn’t know _how_ she’ll keep Solas from getting his hands on the orb, but that’s an issue to be solved another time.

She nods, studying him. She feels lightheaded, thrumming with nervous energy. This is her chance. Her opening to confront him, to find out as much of the truth as she can pry from him. _Mother, grant my heart courage and my mind clarity_.

“There’s more,” she says, as casually as she can. To make her words sound less concrete, less certain, she adds, “isn’t there?”

Solas’s head snaps up, and he looks at her with wide eyes. There is only the hiss of candles and the rhythm of the rain on the aravel roof between them. Her heart races, but her hands do not tremble. His eyes narrow, slightly, as if he cannot decide whether he is confused or suspicious. Ariala stands her ground as he rises slowly, approaching her.

He stops a foot away from her, his hands behind his back. He’s guarded. Wary. Not good. Ariala straightens, keeping her gaze on him. He says nothing, and the old anxiety thrums through her. She clenches her hands into fists, hidden under her crossed arms. “I’m not stupid, Solas,” she says at last, uncomfortable with his odd silence.

“No,” he agrees, and his eyes soften in grief. “I have never thought that.”

He lowers his head, swallowing hard, his eyes squeezing shut. Ariala waits, but he does nothing but press his hand to his forehead. His hand shakes. After several moments, he takes a deep breath and looks up, meeting her gaze.

“Forgive me,” he whispers.

He opens the door beside her and steps out into the rain, closing it behind him.

 _No_ , she thinks, gaping at the whorls in the wood.

Did that really just happen?

She waits, but he does not return, and the rain does not lessen. Numb, Ariala turns to the beds, where the shaving scuttle still rests on one of them. She gently moves it aside and finds her grandmother’s blanket, wrapping it around herself and sitting on her grandmother’s bed. One of her hands leaves her self-made cocoon, pressing against the wrinkled sheets. She pushes her hand up the straw-stuffed mattress until she reaches the pillow, gone flat over the days since her grandmother’s death.

She feels—heavy. Numb. She had given him the opportunity to reveal to her the truth about his past, on his own terms, and he had walked out instead. She covers her face with her spare hand, squeezing her eyes shut. _Breathe. In. Out._

She is weary.

She closes her eyes, and rests.

— ✦ —

Her dream is shrouded in mist, and whispers accompany her every step. The mist parts under her feet, revealing a path of golden tiles. From the knees up, her vision is obscured by thick, unfailing white. When Ariala tries to turn back, an invisible force pushes her further down the golden path.

So she walks.

She walks until the mist parts to reveal a dark-skinned elven woman, impossibly beautiful, with hair that spills down her shoulders in coils. Her lovely face is pinched and sharp when she looks at Ariala, her rose gold vallaslin—Mythal’s tree, the traditional pattern—shimmering in the light. She wears robes of gold that somehow _exactly_ match the shade of her vallaslin, delicately embroidered in white. Her feet are clean and clad in golden sandals.

Ariala glances down at herself, seeing that she is in her hunter’s clothes: a dirtied and patched tunic, and worn leathers. Her feet are bare of footwraps, stained dark brown with dirt and mud. Her toes curl into the golden tile, as if to hide her filth. She swallows hard, tucking her hands behind her back and lifting her head to stare at the woman, wrestling aside her intense self-consciousness.

“Ariala of Clan Lavellan,” the elf says.

“Hello.” Her voice echoes in the mist. Ariala glances over her shoulder before turning back to the elf. “Um. Do I know you?”

The elf’s mildly disgusted expression does not change. Her gaze drifts to somewhere over Ariala’s shoulder. Ariala inhales, her chest tight with fear and with wariness, and turns to look.

Silhouettes stand in the mist, blurs of shadow that only faintly resemble people. They stand silent, nameless, featureless save for Mythal’s vallaslin, glowing white where it is writ across each formless face. Though their faces are shadowed, she somehow knows that all of them are watching her with an eerie, pinpoint precision.

“Uh,” says Ariala.

“Daughter,” says the elf, “I have found you worthy.”

Ariala says nothing, turning back to look at the elf with wide eyes. The woman stares back, expressionless, uncompromising, and lifts a hand to point. The mist clears behind her, revealing a pool of water. The Well of Sorrows.

“You wished for knowledge of what the People once were,” says the woman. “Drink.”

The Well’s surface is still, and from where she stands the water looks black. Murky. Ariala glances back at the woman, who watches her with a narrow-eyed, strange sort of calm, and the faces, which remain silent. She turns back toward the Well, taking a hesitant step forward. The mist pools around her ankles, thickening to some cold, jelly-like substance.

She steps forward, again and again, until she is descending the shallow golden steps. Flashes of blue skirt across the water when her toes, feet, ankles submerge. The water is not so murky, now; she can see how the tiles coalesce underwater, forming the shape of a great golden dragon, with diamonds for eyes. Ariala wades to the center of the pool, right between the dragon’s claws, and when she brushes her fingers along the water’s surface, blue light skitters out, running across the surface like she had skipped a stone.

She cups the water between her palms and lifts it, staring at the black liquid in her hands. It does not move; it does not run over the edges of her hands, down her wrists, between her fingers.

“Drink,” says the elf. Her form is concealed by the mist, now, but her vallaslin glows white, just like the others that watch her.

 _Don’t_ , whispers a voice in the mist. It sounds like Solas, when he had knelt before her at the Well, and pleaded with her to allow Morrigan to take the Well’s power. _Don’t. Please._

Ariala drinks. She tilts her head back and tips her hands, struggling to swallow the water. It is slick, like jelly rather than water, and tastes of smoke. Rivulets run down the corners of her mouth, staining her cheeks and her neck. Still she drinks, more and more, the pool in her hands unending.

The water shifts around her thighs as she drinks, lifting itself before her, droplets coalescing into the form of a dragon. It grows and grows until she stands on tile rather than in water, until even the water soaking her pants and hips and skin have been wicked away. At last, she swallows the last of the water in her hands and licks her palms dry. The dragon watches her with unearthly, glowing blue eyes. Ariala stares at it, unable and unwilling to look away, her hands remaining cupped in front of her. A supplication.

“Aneth ara, Mother,” she says.

The dragon opens its maw, darting down, and she is submerged.

— ✦ —

She stands in a cavernous room, made of white and gold. A vaulted ceiling made of crystal is directly above her, scattering the sunlight in a variety of colors upon the smooth marble floor. The pillars around her are varied in decoration—some are painted in a mix of red and blue and rose-gold clouds, mimicking the splash of dawn; others bear golden mosaics of dragons outlined in silver, with precious gems for eyes; still others bear a crystal layer, of sorts, and behind it runs an unending waterfall. Statues, made of what looks to be some kind of unmelting ice, sit on pedestals attached to the pillars, ringed in gold leaf. There are potted plants everywhere, ferns and flowers she doesn’t recognize, smelling and appearing far too beautiful to be real.

Her mouth tastes like she had imbibed too much of something sweet, leaving a sickly saccharine flavor on her tongue. She pulls her attention from the splendor, finding that shades had risen from shadows, all of them dressed in finery to rival their surroundings. Red and gold velvet settees, deep brown wood, crystal chandeliers. This single room is enough to put the Winter Palace to shame.

So much wealth. Just one chip of this gold leaf could have fed her clan—and probably more, _combined_ —for months. Seeing all this splendor, so unabashedly displayed, just seems… gaudy, despite the elegance. Ariala steps toward one of the ice statues, which does not thaw no matter how many times she touches it, or breathes on it.

“This is what the ancient elves are so high-and-mighty about,” she mutters. “Unmelting ice statues. Nice.”

Her words seem to break some sort of stillness, because a strange voice speaks.

“I do not want a body.”

It’s double-toned, androgynous, a voice she has never heard in her life but nonetheless seems familiar to her. Ariala turns around, glancing around one of the waterfall pillars, and sees a black-haired woman, lazily reclining on a golden sofa. Another young woman sits at her feet, though Ariala is behind them both, unable to see their faces.

And across from her is… a spirit, she thinks. It’s formless, bright green, with glowing pale eyes and the faintest hint of a mouth. It has about the same shape as that Command spirit she’d met in Crestwood, but it is still deeply unnerving.

“I know, dear one,” the woman soothes. Ariala cannot see her face from this angle. The woman’s hair is braided in a strange style; the bottom half of her hair has been allowed to spill down her back, but the top half is braided together, with loose strands artfully pulled back. Jewels and glass decorate her hair, as do strings of gold, spiraled into her hair for some reason.

Until her head turns, and she sees that four parts of her hair had been siphoned off and styled into dragon horns. She wears a golden diadem, pointed in the center, the tip of it almost reaching the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are bright amber, more gold than orange, like Morrigan’s.

So this is the Mother her people revere. The goddess who Ariala honored with her markings. Dead, now, but not forgotten.

“But those who would seek to destroy the People will also seek to destroy you,” Mythal continues. “They would bind you, dear one, and not hesitate to pervert your will to serve their purposes. They would turn you against the People and use your power to fuel their foul magic. To take a body is your only protection from such a fate.”

When the spirit does not reply, Mythal continues. “My most trusted general would be your father, and his wife, your mother. They are good people, and will be loving parents to you, as they were to Ingenuity before you. You would be raised like any other elven child, under my protection. You will want for nothing, and in time, you may join the greatest of the People, and bestowed the Gift.”

“Very well,” the spirit says. “But only because you have called me, old friend.”

The shades fade, leaving the furniture where it is, and Ariala turns and tries to find an exit. What was this room even _used_ for, anyway? It’s too big to be a bedroom, or a sitting room. It looks like it could host hundreds of people rather than three or four.

She finally finds an exit, a set of heavy white wooden doors whose panels are inlaid with golden mosaics of dragons. Sentinels in glittering armor, at once beautiful and practical, stand guard outside the exit, both wearing Mythal’s vallaslin. Ariala startles, but relaxes once they show no sign of noticing her. She not truly stop worrying until she waves her hand in front of a sentinel’s face and he does not even blink.

Shades. Right.

The rest of the building—the Temple? No, the colors aren’t right—is just as lavish. She passes no less than _five_ statues, lifelike in their design, carved of marble; rows of flowers that had chimed like bells as she walked by; three lifelike murals of the forest and plains and ocean that, when she brushed her fingers against the walls, brought to life the sounds of those places—the wind rustling through trees, birdsong, the crash of waves upon the beach. And all the while, elves bearing Mythal’s vallaslin scurry past her. At first, their heads are held high, all of them bearing similar markings; but as she explores, more and more elves appear barefaced, and those who are marked keep their eyes on the ground, trying to avoid the attention of others. There are spirits, too, though they also lessen in number as she goes.

It is… deeply unnerving.

Ariala takes a breath. As she continues to walk down the corridor, the palace shifts, changing around her. Painted and gilt halls shift into dark, beautifully carved wooden shelves, stretching up and up, until she has to crane her head back to see it. Arched windows, bearing stained glass depictions of differently-colored dragons (she knows Mythal liked dragons, but _honestly_ ) spill multicolored light upon crystal floors. Ariala glances down and startles, clinging to a table when she sees the edge of a cliff bottom out from beneath her feet.

Holy shit.

She glances up, noticing that the elven shades do not seem particularly concerned. They must be in some kind of… library, she supposes. A man sits at a table whose legs are curved into elaborate patterns, its edges painted in gold leaf; he’s writing something down, paying no attention to the empty books whose pages fill on their own behind him. It takes her a few moments to realize that the books are not spontaneously writing themselves—the handwriting follows the man’s own. He’s transcribing something, head bowed so she can’t see his vallaslin, concentrated on his work, paying no attention to the copies he is somehow making.

A glowing orange spirit wanders over, and the man waves it away, irritably. Ariala turns away from the shade and follows the spirit, until it leads her to an _extremely_ large and ornate staircase, which is flanked by two smaller but no less grandiose staircases leading up. Ariala tilts her head back, trying to see how high the library went, and managed to count four levels.

Above the last set of staircases is a painted ceiling. Ariala has to stand under it and crane her head back to make out the full details: the painting depicts eight crowned elves, four men and four women, all barefaced. As she watches, it looks as if the painting _moves_ , because spirits flock to the eight figures, and anonymous hands, silhouetted, reach out for them. She can almost hear the roar of the crowds, can almost feel the sunshine that halos each and every elf on her cheeks. But when she blinks, the painting is as still as ever.

One of the women is Mythal.

These are the gods, then. Elgar’nan stands beside her, his skin golden-brown, a skintone shared by four other elves. Andruil wears golden armor, Dirthamen and Falon’Din are flanked by ravens, Sylaise cups flame between her hands with a gentle smile. June stands beside his wife, holding a hollow sphere made of golden bands of metal that seems to rotate in his hands when she concentrates on it. All of them are highly stylized, reminiscent of but not quite like Solas’s own art at Skyhold.

Fen’Harel is not included among the gods. Perhaps this was before the gods considered him one of their own; before he betrayed them, and in so doing damned the People.

If that was even what happened.

She wonders if the Well had meant to show her these things to impress her. Maybe the ancients were hoping she’d wander around these visions, slack-jawed and starry-eyed. But for all the finery that impresses her, she cannot shake her deep-seated discomfort, settled uncomfortably in her stomach.

There is too much wealth. Too much splendor. Empires rose at the expense of people; they did not come from nothing. This wealth had come from somewhere.

Ariala looks away from the painting and continues her exploration of the library. The ceiling is separated into separate domes, each painted to depict some scene of glory. Andruil leaping off a cliff, a golden spear in her hand, as a monstrous serpentine beast rises from the depths of the oceans, fangs bared, body coiled to strike. Elgar’nan standing triumphant over a flaming field, with silhouettes of elven soldiers behind him. Ghilan’nain, ghostly pale, silver hair braided and draped over her shoulder, holding a smooth sphere of carved stone in her hands, electric blue liquid dripping between her fingers. Each and every one of the paintings seem to move when she stares too long at it: Andruil throws her spear as the monster lunges toward her; Elgar’nan’s shadow stretches across the battlefield; Ghilan’nain lifts the stone higher, light spilling over her face, the same color as the liquid dripping between her fingers and down her wrists.

She’s so focused on the ceiling’s paintings that she walks right into something—well, through it. She jerks back, fingers pressing against her stomach, where the chill of the metal still lingers underneath her skin. “Too weird,” she mutters. She looks up, to see what she’d hit, and sees an absolutely massive—over a head taller than her—hollow globe made of various bands of metal, like the contraption June had held.

It does not depict Thedas, but has multiple dots, connected by gossamer-thin golden strands of metal. It looks so fragile, as if one wrong jostle would break it irreparably. It emanates heat, warming her skin, and as she watches it begins to shift on its own, the golden bands rotating, moving the points along with it. She doesn’t realize it’s a star chart until the sphere stops moving, and the constellation of Fenrir stares at her.

A chill runs down her spine and she looks up, glowing blue light catching her eye. She glances to her right, where an archway leads to an open-air balcony that has no guardrail. The only thing on the balcony is a humming, active eluvian, from which two elves appear, talking animatedly though she cannot hear any noise from them. Even their footsteps are silent.

The eluvian remains active.

Ariala takes one last glance at Fenrir, then turns and walks through the eluvian. It does not take her to the Crossroads, as Morrigan had shown her before the assault on the Arbor Wilds; she walks straight into a corridor, from which she can hear two voices.

One of which is Solas’s.

An unmistakable dread sweeps through her, chilling her blood, but she cannot stop herself from rounding the corner, from seeking out Solas’s voice. The Well would not have allowed her to hear him if it did not want her to know he was in this shade-memory.

She finds him in an office, of sorts. It is just as elaborate and as every other room she has seen, but one of the walls is missing, instead forming an open space that leads to a railed balcony. The view is of rolling hills, and mountains in the distance, but that is not what captures her attention.

Beyond the balcony is a floating palace, its spires gleaming in the sun. It sits on its own little platform, but it does not move, as if an invisible tether keeps it from drifting off on the air currents. Ariala barely pays attention to the two men as she steps out onto the balcony, leaning on the railing as she stares at the _floating palace_. Swallowing, she looks down, only to see the forest that stretches out as far as the horizon is underneath her balcony, too.

She thinks of Solas, and Haven, when he said to her: _imagine, instead, spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating among the clouds._

She had laughed, after he’d said that. She doesn’t remember her exact words, but she remembers teasing him, for sounding so nostalgic for something he’d only seen in dreams. Solas had smiled, tightly, and said nothing.

She turns away, focusing on the two men in front of her—focusing on Solas, in truth.

He has a head full of hair, auburn ( _I owe Varric a sovereign_ , she thinks, suddenly, _he’d bet Solas was a redhead_ ), half of it pulled back into a bun and the rest of it allowed to drape across his shoulders. Little intricate braids run through his hair. His robes are fine, too; silvers and bronzes and, of course, golden chain necklaces draped across his neck, with matching gold metalwork at his wrists and waist. His eyes are bright blue in this light, and as she draws closer she can see no trace of the fine age lines she knows around his eyes or his mouth.

He looks—young. Painfully so.

He also has no vallaslin, and neither does the man beside him.

“This is fine work, brother,” Solas says. “The blueprints alone are magnificent. I cannot imagine how it will look in the flesh.”

Solas’s brother sniffs. “There are improvements to be made. The eluvians have proven that we can walk the place between realms. It is another thing to _build_ there. Many sacrifices will have to be made to ensure the Vir Dirthara will meet my standards. It is unlike anything I or the People have accomplished thus far.”

“Perhaps you can ask Lady Andruil for her slaves,” Solas says. “It would be a more productive use of them than hunting them for her own amusement.” He smiles, slightly, though it is cold, the smile he gives to Vivienne after their arguments.

His brother makes a soft sound, more a hum of acknowledgement than a noise of sympathy, but Ariala’s stomach twists. She takes a step back, turning away, and almost runs into a servant— _slave_ , she corrects. The woman, though her head is bowed low, bears June’s vallaslin, inked in umber on her light brown skin. A platter overflowing with fruit and bearing two crystal glasses, plus a crystal pitcher full of a blue-purple liquid, is in her hands.

She sets the platter down on a nearby table and stands at attention, hands behind her back, not once lifting her head to look at Solas and his brother. Solas does not even look at her as he goes to the platter and pours himself a glass of… Elvhen wine, or whatever that is.

“You are dismissed,” he says, his back still to her.

“Of course, Lord,” she says. Ariala does not miss how her shoulders slump in relief when their attention is drawn away from her, or how quickly she leaves. Neither does she miss how Solas’s brother’s eyes linger on the woman, then on the doorway she’d gone through.

Ariala feels sick. She backs away, her gaze flickering between Solas and his brother. The conversation between the two men goes silent, though their mouths still move. Swallowing down the bile rising in the back of her throat, she turns and leaves the room as quickly as she can.

It is not hard to retrace her steps, to run her fingers along brilliantly woven tapestries depicting triumphant scenes of battle ( _conquest_ , she thinks) and stylized murals, until she finds the eluvian, still glowing a bright, deep blue. The surface of the mirror ripples when she presses her hand to its humming surface.

She takes a deep breath, steps through—

And wakes.

— ✦ —

She sits up, gasping for air before she even realizes that she is awake. Pain pulses through her skull, and she tastes smoke in the back of her throat. Bile rises and she stumbles out of bed, wrenching open the door and hopping off the quick steps. She doesn’t even make it behind the aravel before she hunches over and heaves—her stomach is empty, so nothing much comes up, but she still feels wretched. She barely registers the darkness outside, the knowledge that she’d slept the day away again.

All she can think of are the men and women she’d seen, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, vallaslin writ upon their faces. _Slaves_. _The nobles of Arlathan marked their slaves with the vallaslin of the gods they served._

For all his talk of freedom, his professed love for others’ free will and thought—he’d owned slaves. He had _hunted people_ , like she hunted animals. He’d been a part of an empire no better than Tevinter. He had _encouraged_ it. Suggesting sacrificing people like Josephine had suggested color schemes for their Halamshiral outfits.

What else doesn’t she know? What else is he keeping from her?

“Fuck,” she rasps, leaning against the aravel for support. She grinds the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to alleviate her sudden, unexpected headache. The Anchor throbs, a sore pain in the center of her palm, and she grits her teeth against it, cradling her left hand between her knees, her right hand gripping her wrist.

“Inquisitor?”

Solas.

She blinks down at the Anchor, her jaw locked, and watches the Anchor’s magic leech out from the glowing slash in the center of her palm, staining the tiny veins beside it. She waits, but the green remains, resembling little spiderwebbed lines that surround the Mark.

Well. That’s new. Shit.

She looks up, unable to hide her grimace, and Solas is there at once, gently pulling her back so she can brace herself against his chest. He avoids her sick, guiding her to the campfire and urging her to sit down. He kneels in front of her, his gaze focused on the Mark, his face bathed in gold and emerald.

“When did this happen?”

“I—when I woke up,” she grits out, squeezing her eyes shut as the Anchor pulses again, sending sharp pinpricks of pain racing up her wrist. When she opens her eyes, the spiderwebs have spread, and Solas’s jaw is clenched.

He finally makes a sharp gesture with his hand, and the pain vanishes. Ariala exhales, hard, feeling a trickle of sweat run down her temple, sticking a loose strand of hair to her cheek. Solas looks up at her and, carefully, lifts his hand toward her head. She turns her face away, and Solas withdraws.

“I was going to wake you soon,” he says, turning toward the campfire. Only then does she notice he’d put a pot above the fire. “Would you like some dinner?”

“I’m not hungry,” she says, and it’s true. Whenever she looks at him, she can only think of what the Well had shown her. Her thoughts are too preoccupied with what she’d seen to think of her nonexistent appetite.

He looks over his shoulder, brow creased in worry. “You have not eaten all day.” His voice is quietly beseeching. “Please.”

She watches him for a long moment, then nods. He spoons some stew into a wooden bowl, then offers it to her. He’d made a stew, chunks of fish and dried meat flavored with a pinch of dried mint and embrium leaves. The smell of it makes her mouth water and her stomach growl. She does not smile at him, but she takes the bowl from him, gladly. She has to pace herself to make sure she does not eat too quickly—a hard lesson, learned from many lean winters.

“Myra visited while you rested,” Solas says, while she is chewing. “She wished to see if you wanted her to take anything to an Inquisition safehouse, or forward some of your belongings to Skyhold. She will visit tomorrow, to reclaim her cart.” He nods to the wagon that had been used to transport the saplings. Ariala swallows and glances around the clearing, taking in the broken, charred aravels. Only three to go through, and yet the thought of going through her clanmates’ belongings exhausts her.

“Did she say anything else?” she asks.

“There is a ship in Hercinia that will take us to Amaranthine. Tanner will be there with our horses, but we will have to find our way to Skyhold from there.”

Ariala half-smiles. “Did you tell her you accidentally gave an innkeep all of our money?”

Solas coughs, his ears pink in the firelight. “Ah, no. I did not think that was pertinent.”

She half-smiles at that, and refocuses on her stew. Once she finishes, she smiles at him. “That was good. Thank you.”

He smiles back, though his eyes show his uncertainty. An uncertainty she shares. She feels as if they are on the precipice of something—a turning point, maybe. Wherever she goes, whatever path she takes, she can only go forward. She has not been the same since Leliana handed her Deshanna’s letter, and she will not be the same after she confronts him about his past.

She glances down at her near-empty bowl, using the spoon to scrape off the dregs of the stew. Her bare toes dig into the soil, still wet and mushy from the day’s rain. She eats what little remains of the stew, and finally, when she is done, she sets the spoon down. Solas looks up from his own bowl, arching his eyebrow as he glances back at the pot. A wordless question. She shakes her head, and he nods.

Deep breath. In. Out. _Now or never_ , she thinks.

She watches his expression very closely. “What is the Vir Dirthara?”

If her question had taken him off-guard, he does not show it. He sets his spoon down and looks at her, brows furrowed in a picture of perfect, innocent confusion. An expression she has seen before, and has always taken at face value. “Pardon?” he asks.

Ariala clenches her jaw, swallowing hard. She does not repeat herself. “How many of Andruil’s slaves were sacrificed to build it? Was this Vir Dirthara worth their blood?”

His expression smoothes over, perfectly blank. A muscle in his jaw twinges, and he looks away. After a moment, he rises to his feet. Ariala tenses, but Solas only goes to the pot to refill his bowl with stew. She can see the tension in his body: shoulders rigid, eyes tight in the corners. Her stomach growls, despite her meal, and Solas looks at her. Wordlessly, he holds his hand out, and she gives him her bowl to refill.

He does not speak until he has returned her bowl and sits before her once more. “I wondered when the Well would show you the truth,” he says at last. “I knew it was inevitable, but I am surprised it has taken this long.”

“It wasn’t the Well,” she says. “It was my grandmother.”

He looks up, gaze sharp and calculating. “Impossible.”

“No. I knew your story didn’t quite fit, but—I guess I was too busy with the Inquisition to actually put everything together. There are worse secrets than being an ancient elf of Arlathan, I suppose.”

His expression shifts, just slightly. Some of the tension in his posture eases. “Indeed.”

He does not speak, then, in favor of eating his seconds. Ariala pokes at hers with her spoon, watching him instead. She can almost hear him thinking.

“The Vir Dirthara was a marvel of Elvhenan,” he finally says. “A library built between the Fade and this realm. It contained the collective knowledge of the Elvhen people. One elf could witness another’s recorded memories, thoughts, emotions. It was a haven for many—for the People, yes, but also for spirits of Curiosity, Wonder, even Wisdom. I can only assume it was lost with the fall of our people, so long ago.” The grief in his voice is not feigned.

“‘Our’ people?” she echoes, arching an eyebrow, her tone acidic.  “You have never thought yourself one of ‘my’ people, Solas, Dalish or otherwise. Do not try to claim kinship with me now.”

Solas lowers his gaze. She sighs, pushing her stew around.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” she asks. She wants to be angry—and some part of her is. He had lied to her, possibly used her, to further his own goals. She doesn’t know if he has been manipulating the Inquisition for his purposes as well, but it would not surprise her. Something to talk to Leliana about, once she gets back to Skyhold.

The words are on the tip of her tongue. It would be a simple, childish thing, to scream at him: _liar, coward, hypocrite._ It would be simple, to hit him, to tell him to get out of her sight, to embrace that old unwanted fury, simmering even now in her gut.

But he had also brought her ginger tea, when she suffered debilitating seasickness. He had held her in the aftermath of her grandmother’s death, had comforted her. He had found an oak staff and a cedar branch for her grandmother’s burial, when he had no reason to do so. He had drawn her vallaslin, and listened to her people’s stories.

He had helped her see her family again.

And with that thought, all her anger dies, leaving her hollow, empty. _Arasha_ , she thinks, and the irony is bitter on her tongue. She closes her eyes, fighting her quiet grief, and takes a moment to collect herself. When she opens her eyes, Solas’s face is turned toward the fire. His bruises are gone, and his jaw is smooth. He’d healed and shaved himself while she’d slept.

 _Focus_.

“I meant to tell you, in Crestwood,” Solas says at last. “But I was a coward. I feared your reaction. You, who treasure honesty above all else—” He stops himself, lips pressing together in a tight line.

“I told you I’d listen,” she says. His expression falls, eyes squeezing shut.

“So you did,” he whispers. He takes a breath. “Ariala—”

She is so tired. She is so _tired_.

“Don’t.” She presses her lips together, shaking her head. “Don’t, Solas. I gave you a dozen chances to tell me the truth on your own terms, and you took none of them. You could not have shown me more clearly that you value your secrets more than you value… more than you value us, or me. I… I don’t know you.” She shakes her head again, hardening her heart against the look on his face. “I thought I did, but I don’t, not really. There have been too many lies.”

“Only by omission.” His voice is somber, soft despite the intensity of his tone. “I have never lied about how I feel for you.”

Feel. Not felt. Her heart flips. _Damn it_.

She swallows past the burr in her throat, the gut instinct that screams at her to apologize, to go to him, to go back to last night. _Harden your heart to a cutting edge._ She exhales, offering him a weak, sorrowful smile. “I wish I could believe that, Solas. I do. But I don’t know what is real with you. I don’t know if I ever would.”

His expression does not change, but he lowers his gaze. Ariala looks at her uneaten stew, gone cold, and rises to her feet. She passes him and dumps her leftovers into the fire, scraping out as much food as she can, to lessen the workload of washing the dishes later. She sets the bowl into the dishbox nearby, then reaches for his bowl, but Solas shakes his head.

“I will handle the dishes,” says Solas.

“You’re sure?” When he nods, she stands. “All right. Thank you.”

He inclines his head. She wavers a few moments, watching him, but then nods to herself and forces herself to return to her grandmother’s aravel. She shuts the door behind her and closes her eyes, tilting her head back until it thumps against the door.

After a moment, she collects herself and sits on the lower right bunk, right next to the trunk. She opens the lid and pulls out her childhood hart, cradling it as if it were made of Antivan porcelain rather than scraps of cloth and halla hair. She sits back on the bed until her back hits the wooden wall, then lifts her legs and rests her chin on her knees.

The candles hiss around her, bathing the multi-colored hart in a rainbow of golds and oranges and reds. She plucks at a loose string on one of its hooves, absently, her thoughts preoccupied with what she had said to Solas.

_I have never lied about how I feel for you._

_I wish I could believe that._

Ariala thinks of a kiss under the stars, and prays she made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vhenan, vegara'haman, sathan - my heart, come back to bed (/to sleep, for the hamilton nerds), please
> 
> ALSO, i keep forgetting, but i have a tumblr if anyone is interested @ cedarmoons.tumblr.com. I have some tumblr-specific ficlets, behind-the-scenes stuff, etc; and i'm always taking prompts!


	5. mala suledin nadas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mala suledin nadas: now you must endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up, famsquad! i revamped the tags. please check them out. this chapter features ariala's depression very heavily, and i based hers off of my own experiences with it. there's no self-harm or suicidal thoughts, just lots of feels™ and ariala being not kind to herself. also please note the "reference to major character death" -- it's only discussed and has already happened before this story, so i decided not to include it in the warnings. with that said, here is a humorous exchange between me and dino:
> 
> me: i feel like this is rushed  
> dino: [had to scroll through 100k of angst to find this scene] god forbid we hurry things up a little XD  
> me: YOU'RE FIRED
> 
> also, remember in ch. 1 when i said "at this rate beloved will be 100k" and i was joking about it??? yeah. i'm not joking. my next milestone is #130k or bust and dino is about to murder me if ur reading this send help plea

When she finally summons the courage to venture outside, the fire is almost dead, and Solas is gone. The tent flaps are tied shut. Ariala stares at it as she sits, her legs dangling off the sides of the small three-stepped staircase, her toes curling into the damp soil.

Satina is the only moon out tonight, a sliver of light in the night sky where its larger brother is missing entirely. A new moon. Over a month and a half had passed since she left Jader and buried her family. Amaranthine to Skyhold was approximately another month, not including the travel between Hercinia and Amaranthine. By the time she returns, she would’ve been gone for two months.

She can only imagine the paperwork that’s waiting for her.

With a quiet groan, Ariala drops her head in her hands, running her fingers through her unruly hair. She’ll need to comb it soon, but the very thought of her comb snagging on her tangles makes her wince. She gathers the mass of her hair at the nape of her neck, rolling it forward until she can tie it into a sloppy bun atop her head, out of the way. Good.

She lifts her head, her gaze focusing on each and every aravel. Out of twenty-two aravels, only four remain. Her grandmother’s, the hunters’, the food aravel, plus a family’s. The rest are broken, burnt shells of what once was. Her heart aches at the sight of it. Once she returns to Skyhold, there will be nothing preventing Wycome’s people from coming here and destroying what is left.

She glances at the grove. The very thought of Wycome’s humans marching here, cutting down the grove her grandmother had so carefully planted—a lump lodges in her throat, and she has trouble swallowing it down.

Maybe Myra or another of Leliana’s agents could keep an eye on it, or Cullen could station some guards…

 _Don’t be stupid_ , she tells herself. _They won’t want to waste resources watching over an abandoned campsite._

She sighs and stands, going first to the hunters’ aravel. It’s almost pitch-black in there, the limited light from Satina giving her just enough vision to find a match and light it. A human would not have been able to see at all. Carefully, she lights a single candle, which gives her enough light to start her task.

She shakes out the match, checking to ensure it is completely put out before she tosses it onto the grass outside. After closing the door, she leans against it, regarding the empty aravel in silence. She had not stayed here—a benefit of being the Keeper’s granddaughter—but she can imagine life within it. Adhlean strumming during quiet nights, Davhalla humming along. Anuon’s oblivious, borderline obnoxious snoring.

She snorts at the thought; even halfway across the camp, some nights she’d had to pull her pillow over her head to block out the noise. She can’t imagine how the other hunters had dealt with it; maybe they’d tried in vain to sleep, at first, only to resort to smacking him with their pillows and hissing his name until he rolled over onto his stomach.

The thought makes her smile.

But she is not here for nostalgia. She straightens, finding the nearest trunk and opening it. Quietly, methodically, she begins to empty the trunk of everything within it: clothes, trinkets, potions. She separates everything—useful from useless, clothing from items. The drawers underneath Davhalla’s bunk are the worst; she had always been a hoarder, ever unwilling to part with anything, even junk. Ariala pulls out thin chains of tarnished jewelry, clothes that would’ve been better off scrapped for bandages or sewing scraps, a box of matches containing only a single match, more.

She does not hesitate to try on Davhalla’s good clothing. One of them is a deep green shawl, meant to wrap around one side of her body and be belted at the waist. There’s a pretty red tunic that hangs a little too loosely on her frame, but she’ll fill back out once she gets to Skyhold. She finds a shirt for hot summers in the Marches, a sleeveless length of fabric meant to wrap around the stomach and a shoulder. Ariala takes off her tunic and tries it on; her people had never had the luxury of full-length mirrors, not like at Skyhold, and so she has to settle for glancing down at herself to gauge how well it suits her.

She picks at the top of her breastband, adjusting where it chafes at her skin. Gooseflesh pimples on her arms. Definitely a summer outfit, and it will be autumn by the time she gets to Skyhold.

She keeps it anyway, stripping it off and setting it aside, putting it in its own pile. She takes a deep green tunic that reaches her mid-thigh, and a thick gray woolen scarf that had been draped over one of the bedposts. A black poncho, embroidered with silver thread, with a wolf-fur-lined hood. Several sets of hand- and footwraps, because one can never have enough of those.

She actually feels a little guilty; she’d intended to send this all on, to give it to the care of Loranil or another Dalish agent, so they could drop it off at one of the many Dalish safehouses throughout Thedas, carefully warded against intruders and stocked with supplies—food, blankets, extra clothing. More than one of those safehouses had kept her clan from starving during the winter.

Once she has unpacked everything, she carries everything to Myra’s wagon. It takes three full trips, not including the clothes she’d decided to send on to Skyhold, which she puts in a different corner of the wagon, under her grandmother’s blanket.

Gods, she hopes it doesn’t rain between now and whenever Myra sends the wagon to the Inquisition safehouse.

The second aravel she enters is a family’s. One of the beds bears a wooden railing on its side, forming a makeshift crib—they’d only had two at a time, but they had been built to fit any bottom bunk bed in any aravel. A crumpled blanket had been left behind, as had many soft felt toys. Ariala takes the blanket, pushing aside her heartache to examine it. No holes, torn seams, or other damages—it would serve another clan well. No embroidered name on the edge of the blanket, either; such things were never individualized, shared among the clan as they were. She sets the blanket aside and resumes her work.

It only takes her a few hours to unpack everything useful and put the items in the wagon. Deshanna’s aravel is easiest to unpack, because Ariala had already set out the clothes in various piles. She separates the clothes she’d kept for herself and the clothes she would send on and then stands at the end of the wagon, hands on the wooden beam at the end of the cart. Everything she had packed for the safehouse—clothes, blankets and sheets, baskets with useful trinkets like soap, sewing materials and oils—takes up almost the entirety of the wagon.

Ariala exhales and reaches out to touch the baby blanket, now wrapped around several children’s toys. Hopefully they would serve another clan well. “Dareth shiral,” she whispers, taking a step back.

By this time tomorrow, she’ll have left her people. Tomorrow, she will be alone.

— ✦ —

Ariala does not sleep, not truly. She dozes, on and off, until dawn sends a ribbon of pink-gold light through the aravel window, slanting oblique across the wooden floor. She stares at the light for several moments, unwilling to move from the warmth of her bed. She’d climbed up into the top bunk, where she’d slept before her journey to Haven—nearly two years ago, now.

How so much has changed.

It is not until pink leeches from the dawnlight that she forces herself to rise. Her stuffed hart sits on the end table, and she grabs it before leaving her aravel for the last time. The grove is still and silent, but the leaves rustle when she approaches. “Hello, everyone,” she murmurs. The trees are almost as tall as her, but they’re still young, still saplings. She can’t wait to see how tall they’ll grow.

If the humans don’t storm the campsite and cut everything down once they’re gone.

She glances down, banishing that dark thought from her mind. She finds her grandmother’s sapling and sits before it, digging her toes into the soil and wrapping her arms around her bent legs, resting her chin on her knees. She does not say a word; there are moments that words cannot reach. Instead, she breathes, and takes note of the world. She listens to the morning breeze rustle through the leaves, feels the texture of the soil under her feet. When she hears hoof beats on the grass, she looks away from the thin, fragile trunk of her grandmother’s sapling, her gaze landing on the halla, standing near a pile of ashes that had once been an aravel. Neither of them move, preferring to watch her instead, until she lifts an open palm toward them.

The calf is the first to move toward her. His horns have grown over the course of the month—only a few inches, no taller than her longest finger, but it’s enough. Ariala feels a pang at the sight of them, knowing there will be no halla keeper to carve his horns to resemble Ghilan’nain’s sacred markings. His horns will grow straight back, thickening to the width of her wrist, and they will be blocky instead of curved and elegant. He’s also bigger, more muscular, straddling the line between calf and young buck.

Ariala rises to a crouch, reaching out to grasp his jaw. The calf holds still, watching her with liquid black eyes, and she smiles at him. “You watch yourself,” she tells him, as sternly as she can. She lifts her free hand and taps a finger against his nose. “Listen to your mother, you hear me?”

He bleats at her, which she takes for acknowledgement. Forcing a smile, she releases him, and turns to the mother. The doe steps forward, lowering her head to rest her jaw atop Ariala’s shoulder. Ariala closes her eyes, her hands lifting to hold the doe close. Her fingers burrow into the soft hair at the nape of the doe’s neck, between her shoulder blades, and Ariala presses her nose into her throat, trying to memorize the smell of halla hair. She doesn’t know when she’ll get to smell it again.

“We’re leaving today,” she says, voice muffled. “We won’t be able to help you after we’re gone.”

The doe steps closer, pressing herself harder against Ariala. Ariala swallows hard, taking a deep, steady breath, and smoothes her hands down the mother’s shoulders. When she pulls away, she lowers her hands to her side and offers a small smile.

The halla doe honks, and her calf joins her side. They stand there, only a few feet away from her, but Ariala feels as if the distance is insurmountable. Sitting back on her heels, she rests her hands in her lap, lacing her fingers together. The doe watches her for several moments, then steps forward, bowing her head. Ariala’s throat closes and she leans forward, careful to avoid the spiraling horns, and rests her forehead against the doe’s.

“Be safe,” she whispers. “Dareth shiral, ma falon.”

The doe waits several long moments, then steps back. After a heartbeat’s pause, mother and son turn as one, bounding toward the forest. Ariala forces herself to watch as they cross the clearing and disappear into the trees. Only when they are gone does she allow herself to grieve their absence: she brushes her thumb under both eyes and clenches her jaw.

When she turns her attention from the tent, Solas is standing by the flap, staring after the halla. He does not move, so she stands and crosses the distance between them. He watches her approach, his expression neutral, but as she nears his shoulders straighten and he folds his hands behind his back. “Myra may not be here for some time,” he says. “I thought one of us could launder our clothes before our departure, and the other await her.”

She nods. “Okay. Good idea.”

Solas volunteers to do the laundering, as Ariala would have to be here anyway and “inform Myra which items you intend to keep and which you do not,” as Solas puts it. She dutifully goes into her grandmother’s aravel, where she had kept her used clothes in a basket under the right bunk. It’s big, divided down the middle by a straight, narrow wooden board—meant to hold two people’s loads. She puts in soap and washcloths and brings the basket out to Solas, who takes them in silence and retreats to the forest, leaving her alone. She watches his back until he disappears between the trees, then sighs.

Her eyes are sore, and her shoulders feel heavy, as if weighed by invisible stones. She wants to go back into the safety of her grandmother’s aravel, wrap herself in blankets, and sleep. Instead, she turns toward camp, and begins to break it down. She puts out the fire, rolls up their respective bedrolls, and pulls down Solas’s tent. It does not take long—ten minutes or so, at most—but it leaves her feeling exhausted. She sits beside their piled gear, her bow bag near her feet and Solas’s pack against her side. She’d stuffed her childhood hart inside, and its black thread nose pokes out from underneath the flap. She taps it with her fingertip, hesitates, and then sits up, undoing the strap and opening Solas’s bag.

There are the expected items, of course—a thick green scarf, her gloves, her hart and some potions and other herbs. But underneath it is Solas’s worn leather-bound journal, tied shut with a leather cord. Ariala glances over her shoulder, where the forest stands guarding her back, and carefully withdraws his journal from its place underneath everything else. She rests it in her and hunches over it, her apprehension staying her hand, even as she drags her fingertips over the cracked leather.

She should not look at this without his permission. Solas would not want her to see it; she can’t help but feel as though she would be betraying him, somehow, if she opens the cover. Her mouth twists in frustration. _Come on, Ariala,_ she scolds herself. _He’s kept secrets from you, you can keep secrets from him._

She closes her eyes and returns the journal to its place at the bottom of Solas’s pack. Once it is safely buried, out of reach of her temptation, she rises her feet and goes to the grove, kneeling before her grandmother’s tree. She reaches out, pressing her palm to the bark of the tree. The summer sun is still hot on her back, but it is cooler than it had been yesterday. It would be autumn by the time they got back to Skyhold. She will not have a chance to see whether the saplings would survive the winter for… some time. If she ever does get another chance to come back.

She takes a breath. “Mamaela,” she starts. “I’ve come to say goodbye.”

Hoof beats distract her and she tenses, looking up. But the wards do not trigger, and she relaxes when she sees the comfortingly hideous orange-and-green uniform of an Inquisition scout. Myra’s hood is down around her shoulders, exposing a head of short red hair and slender pointed ears. She’s atop a workhorse, built for endurance and strength, with two slimmer thoroughbreds behind her. Ariala rises, emerging from the grove and meeting Myra halfway.

Myra stops her horses, using her free hand to salute her. “Your Worship. Good morning!”

“On dhea, falon,” Ariala says, offering her a small smile as she helps her dismount. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m well, thank you.” Myra glances around, resting her hand on her horse’s saddle. “Where’s your companion? Solas, was it?”

“Yes. He’s wrapping up some chores before we leave for Hercinia.”

“Right! Hercinia! Yes.” Myra clears her throat, turning around and untying the horses’ leads from her mount’s saddle horn. Ariala takes them from her, leading the horses to what remained of the halla pen and tying them to a post. When she’s done, she turns and sees that Myra is shaking out a tarp to drape over the supplies.

“What would you like me to send on to Skyhold, Your Worship?” Myra asks.

Ariala sets her hand atop the pile of clothes she’d selected for herself, which is covered by her grandmother’s blanket. “Just this. Everything else can be sent to the Inquisition safehouse in Lydes. I’ll send an agent to collect the rest from there.”

Myra nods, draping the tarp over the supplies. When she’s done, she draws out a roll of paper from the lining of her cloak. “Found a few ships that leave Hercinia in the next few weeks,” she says, “just in case. All of them go to Amaranthine.”

Ariala takes it, but does not bother to look at it. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Myra,” she says, “but I should tell you that we don’t have any money on us to pay for our passage to Amaranthine.”

Myra’s smile disappears. “Are you serious?”

“Totally.” Ariala has to suppress a smile, because she _does_ feel bad, but Myra’s expression of pure, horrified alarm is amazing.

Myra immediately starts patting at her waist. Ariala protests once she realizes what she’s doing, but Myra shrugs, waving her off. “You probably need it more than I do,” she says, finally finding a small coin pouch. She dumps it out on the tarp, counting out a large amount of gold sovereigns, silvers, and coppers, all amounting to ten sovereigns’ worth. Should be enough, if they ration their gold.

“You’re getting a raise when I get back to Skyhold,” Ariala says, and allows herself to smile when Myra flushes.

“Oh, Your Worship, that’s not really—”

“Myra,” Ariala says, “you’re getting a raise. You’ve earned it ten times over.”

Myra glances down, not quite able to hide her smile as she scoops the coins back into the leather bag. “Thank you, Your Worship,” she says, finally, as Ariala takes the bag from her. Ariala gives her a small smile and pats her shoulder. It does not take long for Myra to hitch the cart to her horse. Ariala waits for her to mount, then approaches her, stopping at the flank of her mount.  

“Will you have enough money for the trip to Lydes?” she asks.

Myra blinks at her. “I’m not going to Lydes, Your Worship. We have an outpost near Markham. I’ll send another agent along to Lydes, and then someone at Lydes will let you know when the cart is there. The Skyhold things will be sent on from Markham.”

“Oh. Of course.” Ariala takes a step back, feeling her face heat. _Stupid_ , she thinks.

Myra gathers her reins in her hands, looking uncertain. “Unless—you _want_ me to go to Lydes? I can do it, Your Worship, but—”

“No, no, what you planned is fine.” Ariala offers a small smile. “Safe travels, Myra.”

Myra looks at her for a few moments longer, then nods and salutes her. “And you, Your Worship.” Ariala takes another step back and watches as Myra clicks her tongue, urging her horse forward. She watches Myra leave, arms crossed, and does not move until Myra’s cart is out of sight.

Once she’s alone again, she sighs, turning, and sees Solas walking from the forest, his basket under his arm. Ariala swallows hard, her fingers tightening on her arm. Solas is back, which means one less task to complete. One less excuse she can use to stay here.

But the clothes will have to dry, which will give them a few more hours, at least.

Ariala meets him halfway. “Welcome back,” she says, and Solas inclines his head. “We had a portable line for laundry somewhere, I’m sure I can find it—”

“No need,” Solas says. “They’re already dry.”

“How are they already—oh. Magic,” she says, with a small half-smile. Solas nods. “Right. Of course. Well, let’s…” she turns away, taking a shallow breath. “Let’s get packing, then.”

It takes them no more than an hour to prepare everything. Ariala tosses what little food the storage aravel has left out into the grass for the carrion, pulls on her gloves, then packs all of her clothes into her bedroll, rolling it up when she’s done and tying it to the end of her horse’s saddle. Solas does the same thing, but keeps his knapsack on his back. When they’re finally mounted and ready to ride south for Hercinia, Ariala hesitates. She stops her horse and twists around in her saddle, staring at the empty camp in silence.

“We could stay another day,” he offers, his voice soft.

She shakes her head, just slightly. “Once we’re gone,” she says, “there will be nothing protecting this place. Nothing to stop Wycome from coming back, and cutting down the trees, or digging up their graves—” She inhales, stopping herself, and shuts her eyes as her throat closes.

Solas says nothing to that, which is fine. She hadn’t expected a response, and she doubts that there is even something _to_ say.

Ariala forces herself to open her eyes, to cast one last look at the ruined camp, made somewhat beautiful by the grove of trees. She forces herself to remember her family—Vunora’s barking laugh, Davhalla’s voice, Ellowen’s tongue sticking out as she carved and sanded a piece of wood to perfection. Shenuvun and Mira. The children.

Her grandmother.

“Dareth shiral,” she whispers.

The wind whispers through the grove, rustling the leaves and stirring her hair. Ariala closes her eyes, feeling the cool breeze caress her cheeks, feeling the weight of Solas’s gaze on her. She thinks of a prayer to Falon’Din, so often uttered in the winter months.

_Lord Falon’Din, guide their feet, calm their souls, lead them to their rests. O, Lethanavir, Merciful One, Friend to the Dead, hear my plea, and take mercy on my kin._

Ariala opens her eyes, and stays silent, refusing to let the prayer past her lips. No tears sting her eyes this time, and no guilt weighs like a stone in her gut as consequence of her prayer’s absence. She would not pray to silent, sleeping gods, least of all gods who sacrificed people for their own vainglory.

“Let’s go,” she says to Solas, urging her horse around with a click of her tongue. She does not look back as they ride away. _If I look back, I will break._

She is Dalish. She will endure. She will live on, as she promised.

— ✦ —

The ride to Hercinia means a day’s worth of navigating marshes that surround the distributaries of the Minanter River and three days of crossing the Vimmark prairies, with the Vinmarks always on the horizon, ever-distant. The journey is good, because it gives them a much-needed distraction from the tension that has settled between them. They speak, of course, but only about superficial things: the weather, the travel conditions, the itinerary.

Whatever progress they’d made beyond that is lost. They’re back to the awkwardness of Crestwood’s aftermath, back to stilted pleasantries and averted glances and unspoken words. They had been on the cusp of reconciliation, or at least _closure_ , and now that possibility is gone.

She hates it.

It’s for the best, she knows, but her fool heart misses him.

They set up camp for the night after dusk, once they’ve gotten past the worst of the marshlands. They find some solid ground, and Ariala takes up her bow and some snares and ventures out into the prairie.

She’s not used to hunting out in the open like this, exposed to the gaze of any perceptive animal, but the grass covers almost all of her when she crouches. In the end, she snares a red-legged water pheasant and a nug, and takes it all back to camp. Solas has set up their tent and is crouched before the fire, warming his hands. He looks up at her entrance, then glances down at the fire. “It will rain tonight.”

“I know. Are the horses tied for the night?”

“Yes. I cast a charm around them, as well, to keep them warm.”

Ariala nods, untying her nug and pheasant from her belt and handing the bird to Solas. She sits across from him, separated by fire, and gets to work skinning and cleaning the nugs. She hadn’t seen any flavorful herbs that she immediately recognized on the prairie, so they’ll just have to eat bland nugs and pheasant. She grimaces at the thought.

“What is it?” Solas asks, heating a bowl of water and dipping the pheasant in it.

“Just thinking,” she replies, watching him pull it out and start plucking. As she watches him, she thinks of their first outing to the Hinterlands. She’d caught an elk and asked him to help her dress it, and he had stared blankly at her before admitting that his knowledge was not on par with hers. She’d asked him about it, later, some teasing along the lines of _how does a lifelong apostate not know how to dress an elk?_ —but she’d coaxed him to her side nonetheless, and showed him how to dress a nug and a fennec. Afterward, he had helped her dress a ram in the Hinterlands’ crossroads, attentive to each word of advice or gentle guidance, and at each dinner he had been at her side, patiently listening to her lectures on chicken and rabbit (which was entirely different from nug) and pheasant.

Now she knows why he had been so lost. He had spent the life of a noble, always having food prepared for him, never needing to learn how to prepare his own meals. He’d never even _needed_ to learn.

He’d always had slaves to do the work for him.

She looks up from the pheasant to see Solas staring at her, his expression unreadable. She takes a breath, pulling away from her thoughts, and glances down at her nug, beginning her work on cutting off its hand-feet-paw things. “It’s just the thought of eating nugs again,” she says. “I feel like they’re the only things I’ve eaten this whole trip. If I never have to eat another nug again, it’ll be too soon.”

His laughter surprises her. She looks up again, her brow furrowing, and sees him trying and failing to suppress a smile. “Looking forward to Skyhold fare, then?” he teases. “I am sure the cook will honor any request of yours. Roasted quail with raspberry sauce, perhaps, or pheasant with pear and honey glaze, seasoned with rosemary…”

Her stomach growls at the thought. “Fruit,” she says, unable to hide the longing note in her voice. “Oranges and—gods, what are they called—pineapples from Antiva.”

“Mm. Honey garlic pork tenderloin.” Solas glances down at his pheasant, a wistful expression flashing across his face. “Strawberry loaf cakes, with strawberries and buttercream frosting.”

Ariala laughs, loud and unabashed, her nose wrinkling as she does so. “Gods, you have _such_ a sweet tooth,” she says, shaking her head slightly.

Solas’s smile softens as he stares at her, and as the moment stretches on she grows self-conscious. Maybe she has nug blood on her face? She ducks her head, scrubbing at her cheeks with the back of her clean wrist, and then looks at Solas and asks, “What?”

“It is good to hear you laugh again,” he says.

Oh.

Ariala swallows and looks down, focusing on dressing her nug. Once she’s finished and has set it on the fire, next to the pheasant, she says, “Are there any foods you miss from Elvhenan? Specifically?”

Solas rolls his sleeves up to his elbows before turning the spit. “Rice cake,” he answers at last, drawing her attention away from the sight of his naked forearms.

“Which is?”

“It was… a custard, I suppose is the word, from my childhood. Mostly made of rice and yogurt, with meat fillets—usually chicken—and egg yolk, flavored with saffron and nutmeg.”

“Hmm. How do you make it?”

He explains while the pheasant and nug continue to cook, using hand gestures as he does so, to demonstrate some of the cooking techniques. Once everything is prepared and they begin to eat, they swap more recipes. Ariala describes stews made of meat and garlic and tomatoes, yogurt made of halla milk and sweetened with copious amounts of brown sugar and cinnamon, Dalish flatbread and hearth cakes.

Solas, in turn, tells her of rich layered cakes as tall as Iron Bull, fine wines made from a blend of a thousand fruits, and foreign spices made of plants now extinct. He tells her how certain elvhen dishes required years of preparation and setting before they could be eaten—several meats, for example, had to first be cured and then smoked for half a century before being considered edible.

When the nugs and pheasant are finally cooked, Solas offers her the biggest portions of each. She eats, but after only a few mouthfuls of nug, her stomach feels tight, stuffed full. When he asks her if she would like more, she shakes her head. “Maybe later,” she says, ignoring Solas’s look of disapproval.

She cleans up while he sets wards, and once they are settled in their bedrolls, side by side, Ariala rolls onto her side, facing away from Solas. He falls asleep before she does, and she listens to the sound of his breathing for what seems like hours before her eyes slip shut and she surrenders to sleep.

Her dreams are, once again, of Elvhenan.

She dreams of open-air pavilions with crystal half-sphere domes, of elven children running between pink and golden-leafed trees, where pathways materialize from nothing to support their footsteps. She dreams of winters that lasted years and summers that lasted decades, populated by fairs and festivals and the construction of ancient wonders. She dreams of elvhen women wearing wispy, elegant dresses and complex hairstyles, and men wearing long, flowing robes. A fair percentage of both men and women forego the fashion for glittering golden armor. She dreams of gardens miles wide, where flowers chime in the breeze, and harp music floats on the air, and spirits walk alongside elves.

She sits on a bench before a layered fountain, where foaming azure water runs over each step. A rosebush sits beside her, its blooms somehow brighter and more vibrant than any true rose she’d seen, and the petals smell a thousand times sweeter. She plucks one rose, noticing the lack of thorns on its stem, and lifts it to her nose.

 _This is what we lost_ , the Well tells her.

Ariala thinks of Falon’Din, slaughtering entire cities for his own power. She thinks of slaves, and geasa, and a goddess murdered in her own temple. “Was it worth their blood?” she asks, just as two young men run past her, laughing, oblivious to her presence.

“Come back!” one shouts, and though he is smiling she hears a strange, dissonant note of despair in his voice. “Come back, my heart—my heart—”

The ground shakes, and gives way, and the dream spirals out into darkness.

— ✦ —

They reach Hercinia the afternoon of the fourth day. The first thing she sees is its palace, gleaming in the sun so brightly it hurts her eyes. The palace towers above everything else in the city, and she idly wonders how many poor could have been fed with the money spent on its construction.

An Inquisition agent waits for them outside the gates. He salutes her, takes their horses, and directs them to the docks—their first and last stop in the city. Down here in the docks, everything smells of sea and fish and waste, and the grandeur of the palace is nowhere to be seen. Ariala hunts down a merchant vessel that had been included in Myra’s list, but the captain asks for too much money. The next outright refuses to carry elves on-board.

“You?” he asks, laughing. “A woman on board’s bad enough, and an elf is just plain bad luck. No need to curse my crew with a knife-eared wench, much less a Dalish savage.”

“No,” Solas says behind her, before she can stop him. “I imagine they are cursed enough, having to deal with your presence.”

The captain sputters, face flushing. One hand goes to the sword at his waist, and Solas’s grip on his staff tightens, his eyes narrowing.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Ariala says, and guides them away. Solas is using his staff as a walking stick, but the way his fingers curve around the wood makes her think that he’s thinking about using it as a weapon, instead. Ariala puts a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, and ignores the way he relaxes at her touch in favor of keeping them moving.

“I will not apologize,” he says, finally, once they’re long out of earshot and sight of the racist captain. “I would gladly do worse, if given the chance.”

Ariala glances at him. “Thank you for wanting to defend my honor,” she says, and though pink spreads across his cheeks and ears at her words, she is too tired to smile. “But it’s not worth it. We can just find another captain.”

They work through Myra’s list until early evening, facing a multitude of rejections until they reach the last one. Before they meet with him, Solas touches her arm and draws them out of foot traffic. “Perhaps we should consider mentioning your connection to the Inquisition,” he says. “Being owed a favor by the most powerful organization in Thedas is an intoxicating draw.”

“How would I prove it, Solas?” she asks, gesturing to her clothes—a simple green tunic, doeskin leathers, and black footwraps. She had not brought her scout’s armor, or her ceremonial Prowler set, with its Eye of the Inquisition stamped across the chest piece. And unless she went around waving her Mark at everyone, she _has_ no way to prove her identity. She explains as much to Solas, who concedes the point with narrowed eyes.

The last captain on their list has a Ferelden accent. He listens to their request patiently, leaning against the dock’s railings as his men load supplies onto the ship, but once they tell him how much money they have he shakes his head. “Need at least five sovereigns more, friends,” he says. “That’s my usual rate for passengers, human or elf.”

Ariala presses her lips together and exchanges a glance with Solas. “What if I told you,” she starts, “that you would be in the Inquisitor’s debt?”

His eyebrows raise, and he straightens with a brash laugh. “I wouldn’t believe you. The Inquisitor’s in Ferelden, not the Free Marches, though you wouldn’t be the first Dalish elf I’ve heard of who tries to pass as her.”

“Interesting,” Ariala says, nodding, though she has never before heard of Dalish elves stealing her identity. Not like the humans would be able to tell the difference, even if they had heard reports about what she looks like. “You’re from Ferelden, right? Did you have any family in the Hinterlands?”

The captain scratches his beard, still grinning, still amused at their expense. “Aye, a brother. Jimmy. The Inquisitor helped him out. If you can tell me what she did for him, I’ll let you both on for half rate.”

“Jimmy,” she mutters under her breath, wracking her brain for the name. She’d done so much for the people in the Hinterlands, it was hard to keep track of them all. Was he the one who wanted flowers on his wife’s grave? No, he’d been too old to be this captain’s brother. Maybe she’d delivered a letter—? _Shite._ She looks at Solas, wide-eyed, but he can only shake his head, looking as lost as she feels.

As the moments pass and she says nothing, the captain grunts, lowering his hands. “As I thought. Well. I wish you both a good night, and good luck getting to Amaranthine.”

He pushes away from the dock’s rail and walks toward the gangplank. Ariala stares at his retreating back, at his head full of sandy blond hair and stocky farmer’s build, and suddenly she remembers. “Wait!” she cries out, and the captain stops, turning around. He’s no longer smiling, and his annoyance is naked on his face, but she remains undaunted.

Ariala steps forward. “Your brother called himself one-eyed Jimmy,” she says, “because he lost his vision in his left eye in childhood.” The captain’s expression slackens in shock, and she knows she has him. “He lived in Redcliffe Village, working a farm, and he asked me to find his ram for him. Lord… uh, Woolly, was the name, I think. Beautiful ram, orange and red, but there was something… strange about it.”

The captain blinks, and after a moment he salutes her, pressing his closed fist to his chest—a Ferelden gesture. “Your Worship,” he says, “I beg your forgiveness for doubting you. You and your companion are welcome aboard my ship, free of charge.”

Ariala glances at Solas with a small, triumphant look, and his own smile makes her grin. She grabs the tin full of ginger water at her belt, its contents distilled several days before, and takes a healthy drink before she steps aboard the gangplank.

The captain introduces himself as Connor Abram, and he gives them his quarters for the voyage, just as Isabela had. But unlike Isabela, Captain Abram looks at her in an uncomfortably familiar way. It’s how pilgrims regard her, how those cultists in the Hinterlands had looked at her after she’d closed the rift.

He’s a believer.

She has never publicly renounced the title of Andraste’s Herald, at Josephine’s advice, despite how uncomfortable it makes her. Her interactions with the captain make her regret that choice. He sits at her right hand at dinner, makes sure she eats the best selections of the sailors’ fare they have, and expresses remorse that they do not have anything better for her. “It’s fine,” she assures him with a smile, one he returns, though his is more wistful.

“You are as kind as the rumors said,” he says.

Her smile is weaker, then, and she drinks more ginger water to excuse herself from replying. After dinner, she and Solas retire to the captain’s quarters. It is not as sumptuous as Isabela’s room aboard the _Siren’s Call II_ , but Ariala supposes it wouldn’t be. Isabela had had Tevinter rugs, red velvet drapes, and a wall’s worth of windows that cast light across the entire room. Her mahogany desk had had model ships and a fully turning globe embedded in the left-hand side.

Captain Abram’s room, by contrast, is more cramped—the bed is set off to the side of the room, though it is large enough for two people. He has bookshelves bolted to the warped wooden floors, with glass sliding doors, to keep the books inside. Ariala examines the titles and notes, with no small amount of amusement, that among books of astronomy and tariff laws, Captain Abram carries a complete set of Varric’s _Hard in Hightown_ , all of which are bound in fancy leather with elaborate gold stitching. Three tiny windows are the only natural light source, and a small dining table with three chairs sits in the center of the room.

In a corner sectioned off by a linen drape is a round wooden bathtub, next to an end table bearing a pitcher of water and a fresh bar of sweetly scented soap. A full length mirror is in a corner made by two intersecting sheets, reflecting the tub and the curved wooden wall of the ship. The soap and mirror hadn’t been there before dinner. Ariala sighs, turning back to Solas, only to see him open the bookshelf and take _Hard in Hightown, vol. 9_ from its shelves.

“Really?” she asks.

Solas startles but catches himself, turning to face her, the hand holding the book ducking behind his back. As if that will keep his secret. Ariala’s grin widens as he clears his throat. “Our library does not have this chapter,” he says, sounding defensive. “I did not wish to continue reading the series without knowing what occurs in this installment, especially after chapter eight’s suspenseful ending.”

“Varric’s never going to let you live this down.”

“Varric will not know,” he replies, his tone once more serene, “provided _you_ do not inform him of my reading habits.” He settles into the stuffed chair at the captain’s desk and opens the book. Ariala rolls her eyes, crossing the room to the bed. She smoothes her hand over the covers and sits down, bending over to remove her footwraps for the night.

“How is your stomach?” Solas asks, after several moments of silence. She glances up, only to see him watching her, the book in his hands open but unread.

“Fine. The ginger water’s helping.” The journey to Amaranthine is only supposed to last three and a half days, but based off of her prior sea voyages, her ginger water won’t last her that long. And then it’ll be days spent hunched over the side of the ship, vomiting her guts out as the ship rocks underneath her feet and her stomach churns.

Solas nods, watching her carefully, and then returns to his book. Ariala lies down on the bed, turning to her side so her back faces him, and tries to think of anything but the rocking of the ship, and the way her stomach churns in response.

She listens, instead, to the sound of Solas’s breathing, and pages turning, and the pulse of her heart under her skin. Eventually, Solas mutters something unflattering about the quality of Varric’s writing. She listens to him close the book, stand, and put it back in its place among Captain Abram’s collection. She listens to him unfurl his bedroll and place it across the floor, and she makes no offer to have him sleep with her instead. She listens to him get comfortable, listens to his breathing deepen and even out, until there is no sound but that of the sea—which would be soothing, if it had not been accompanied by relentless nausea.  

She stays up for hours, and only falls asleep when she is too exhausted to stay awake.

— ✦ —

The pain wakes her. It pulls her from a dream of a city built over a tropical oasis, where waterfalls thundered from the tops of towers of golden-veined marble and the night sky shimmered with a thousand different colors, and takes her to Captain Abram’s room, a much colder, darker place.

The Anchor is bright—too bright, casting light better than any candle. It hadn’t done that since Haven, at least, back when the Mark was new and a thousand times more painful. Ariala grits her teeth as it pulses, sending a fiery wave down the nerves of her wrist, like a too-tight pressure unable to be relieved. She clutches her left wrist with her right hand, curling into herself, doing her best to stay quiet. The Mark pulses in the center of her palm, as painful as a battle wound, and Ariala bites down on the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut. A tear escapes her eye and runs down the bridge of her nose.

 _Fuck_.

She can’t scream. She can’t wake Solas, or the ship’s crew.

Green strands of magic spiral out into the air, hissing, and Ariala cannot stop her soft sob of pain. She tries to think of an injury, _any_ injury, that had hurt more than this, but her mind is blank, and she can only dwell on the pain.

Distantly, she hears a rustle behind her. Solas. No. He has seen her at her weakest already; she doesn’t want him to see her like this. But before she can warn him off, the Anchor pulses again, the magic in her hand hotter than any dragonfire she’s felt. Ariala curls into a fetal position, her left hand shaking against her chest, and she can taste her own blood in her mouth.

But then there are hands on her shoulders, lifting her, propping her against something—someone. Solas. “Lean against me,” Solas says, a harsh desperation in his voice, and she does, clenching her jaw until her teeth ache. She barely feels his arms encircle her, barely feels his steady hands cupping her shaking ones. She lets her head fall back onto his shoulder, and the backs of her eyelids are painted green, even as salt courses down her cheeks and her breaths come out as pained whines.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain is gone. In its absence, emptiness festers, a numb weight in the center of her chest that makes her ache. She leans against Solas’s chest, her breath still hiccupping out of her as her brain tries to reconcile that terrible pain with its unexpected end. Solas’s breathing is harsh in her ear, and when the rigid tension leaves her body, he sags as well, resting his forehead on her shoulder as his arms tighten around her. His thumb strokes at the tender flesh of her inner wrist, as if reassuring himself of something.

“The Anchor’s getting worse,” she finally says, and though she had not screamed her voice is hoarse.

“Yes.” Solas’s voice somehow sounds worse than hers—choked, and rasping, and ruined. His arms tighten around her, and she allows herself the small weakness of savoring his touch. “It is.”

A dozen questions come to mind: how he could control the Anchor, whether Dorian or Vivienne would be able to do what he had, what they could do to prevent the Anchor from acting up again.

Whether the Anchor would be what killed her, in the end.

She asks none of them. She is too tired, and the ghost of agony in her palm is too painful. Her eyelids stay shut as she leans against Solas, listening to the quick sounds of his breathing, the dull thud of his heartbeat, which pounds hard enough that she can feel it racing against her back. He does not let go, and she does not pull away. She lets herself be held.

It is not until the vestiges of green are replaced by dawnlight’s pale red and rose that she opens her eyes. Solas is still holding her, his heartbeat still too fast against her back. His head has not moved from its place on her shoulder, and his arms are still wrapped around hers, but his body has moved, curling around her in some protective embrace. Ariala takes a deep breath and turns her head, regarding the sunrise from a line of three clouded windows.

Solas pulls away only after several long minutes pass, and she silences the part of her that aches at his absence. She sits up instead, letting the weight of her body shift forward, letting her forehead lower to press against her knees. She takes another breath and, slowly, forces herself to turn around and face Solas.

He had moved off the bed, and is kneeling before her, his gaze intent and sorrowful on her face. Under his scrutiny, she becomes acutely aware of her flaws: the oil on her skin, unwashed in well over a week; the grease in her matted, dull hair; the bitter aftertaste of sleep and the feel of grit on her uncleaned teeth.

Shame prickles through her, heating her face and her ears, and her eyes burn with unshed tears. One falls, and she squeezes her eyes shut to prevent any more from betraying her. But then Solas’s thumb is on her cheek, wiping away the wetness on her skin, and she hates how disgusting, how _weak_ she feels.

“Are you still in pain?”

She opens her eyes. Solas is watching her, his eyes wide and gray and concerned, and she sniffs as she shakes her head. He lowers his hand to rest beside her thigh and she looks at her hands in her lap. “I’m,” she starts, but her throat closes up and she cannot continue.

_Disgusting—_

_Lazy—_

_Weak—_

“It’s nothing,” she lies. “I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for.” He swallows. “Is there anything you need? Are you hungry?”

“Um. No, I’m not hungry. But—if you could draw a bath for me?”

Solas’s smile is small and heartbreaking. “Of course. A moment.” He rises to his feet, and Ariala watches him cross the room, disappearing into the squared-off corner made of linen. She can’t see his silhouette as he prepares, so instead she turns her head and watches the dawn.

When he returns, he tucks his hands behind his back. “The bath is ready, Inquisitor. I myself am rather hungry, so I will go see if the cook can provide some breakfast,” he says. “I will return soon.”

She nods, but even after he is gone, she stays where she is. The bath—and the toiletries in a leather bag, tucked into her bedroll—feel a thousand thousand miles away. Though it would be a simple thing, to rise from the bed and cross the room, it is daunting, almost impossible, and she presses her lips together.

 _Come on. You’re disgusting. Go take a bath. It’s not that hard. Come_ on!

Finally, she forces herself to her feet and staggers toward her bedroll, kneeling before it and rifling through clean clothes before she finds the small leather bag that holds her bathing supplies. From it she takes a clean, dry rag and her half-empty vial of rose oil. She rises and goes into the sectioned-off corner of the room, resting her supplies on the end table and cleaning her teeth. Once she is satisfied, she starts taking off her clothes.

Once she is stripped down to her smalls and breastband, she hooks her thumbs under the waistband of her smalls and catches sight of herself in the full-length mirror.

The mirror’s edges are badly tarnished, and its glass is spiderwebbed with cracks, but it’s functional enough that she can see her body, almost skeletal under her skin. Ariala lifts her hands, unable to unable to keep herself from touching the places where her ribs and hips jut out, casting small shadows over her body. She presses her hand over her navel, pinching the skin below it. It takes a few moments for the skin to return back to its position, and even then there’s a slight crease, visible against the expanse of her stomach. Dehydration.

“Shite,” she whispers.

She looks like she’s just lived through the worst winter of her life.

She turns to the side, brow furrowing as she runs her fingers over the visible ridges of her ribcage. She’s always been underweight—Josephine had tutted during her fitting for Halamshiral, and afterward always kept a bowl of sweets nearby whenever Ariala was in her presence—but this is… not good.

When was the last time she ate?

She can’t remember. Not since dinner last night, at least—or had that been two nights ago? No, she hadn’t been hungry last night, and she remembers how the food had tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She _still_ isn’t hungry, either, just exhausted.

She’s lost muscle definition, too, in her legs and arms and probably her back, though she can’t turn her head far enough around to see. Her face is thinner, almost gaunt, and while she doesn’t look like an emaciated skeleton yet, the sight is still horrifying.

“ _Shite_ ,” she hisses.

The door opens, startling her, and her arms cross over her chest before she can collect herself. Like a deer pinned by a hunter’s stare, she can only watch as Solas walks into the room, holding a tray of food, and places the tray on the captain’s dining table. She stares at him as he looks toward the bed, then turns and catches sight of her.

His gaze immediately goes to her exposed abdomen, and she watches his neutral expression shutter, becoming something cold and closed-off. His hands fist by his sides, becoming white-knuckled, and his jaw clenches. Slowly, his gaze lifts from her hips, to her ribs, to her face.

Ariala swallows and lowers her hands, but cannot bring herself to speak. They stand at a distance, spelled into silence, and Solas is the first to break it: he turns away, hunching over the table. She lets out her held breath, watching how his shoulder blades draw together under his tunic. Solas lowers his head, then shakes it with a low, irritated sound. He straightens and turns on his heel, striding toward her with a look in his eyes that alarms her.

She is rooted to the spot, unable to move as he closes the distance and lifts his hands, cradling her face between them. He presses his forehead to hers and she closes her eyes, her breath hitching. “I don’t know how to help you,” he whispers, voice rough.

“I don’t know if you can,” she admits, opening her eyes.

“May I try?”

At that, she meets his gaze, so earnest and blue, now, in this light. Swallowing, she lifts her hand and grips one of his wrists, turning her head and pressing closer against his palm. His breath catches, and she closes her eyes when his thumb strokes her cheekbone.

She knows that she should pull away, remind him that they cannot continue like this, but she is too weak to follow through. She feels like a moth, irresistibly drawn to a terrible, wonderful flame, and she cannot decide whether she should continue to run or simply give in and embrace the fire.

Finally, he lowers his hands and steps away from her. “I will get you some food,” he murmurs. Ariala waits for his back to turn, then closes the small gap in the linen dividers. Once she’s given some privacy, she strips away her final layers, taking care not to look at her reflection in the mirror. She kicks her smalls to a corner and steps into the bath, sighing a little at its heat. The tub is round, not long enough for her to stretch out in, but its depth makes up for it—the water laps at her collarbones.

“Inquisitor? May I come in?”

“Yes,” she says, and though the water is darkened from being inside a hollow oversized barrel she still pulls her knees up to her chest, acutely aware of her own nakedness. Solas enters their tiny little space and kneels beside the barrel, resting the metal tray on the ground. He offers her a plate with piled high with dried beans, greasy sausages, and hardtack. She holds the plate on the edge of the tub and dutifully eats some hardtack under his watchful gaze, though it is tasteless and clumps in her mouth.

“Would you like me to wash your hair?” Solas offers, gently.

How pathetic must she look to him, to require help for the most basic of tasks. Ariala’s expression crumples and she looks away, closing her eyes and swallowing hard. Once she’s mastered herself, she allows a small nod.

“If you could get my ginger water first,” she says. Her voice is small, and she hates herself for it.

“Of course. A moment.” He is gone for only a minute or so, and then he is kneeling once more at her side, offering her the tin of ginger water. She drinks a few mouthfuls, washing down the sharp taste of ginger with a sausage that she struggles to swallow. Solas begins to finger-comb her hair, spreading it out over the rim of the tub, and she closes her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the sensation as she forces herself to eat her miserable excuse for breakfast, even as she knows she’ll probably just vomit it all later in the day.

Once she’s eaten all that she can tolerate—just a little under half her plate—she pulls away from Solas and sets her plate on the floor. Then she leans back, pressing against the curve of the tub, and lets Solas continue to wrangle with the knots and mats in her hair. He is always careful not to tug too sharply on her hair when he encounters a stubborn knot, and for that she is grateful.

“You did not eat enough,” he eventually says, disapproval evident in his voice.

“I ate what I could. I’m not that hungry, Solas.”

He sighs behind her, but does not argue the point, a fact for which she is absurdly grateful. She closes her eyes, relaxing when he fills the pitcher with water and begins to pour it over her head. She tilts her head back, ensuring no water gets into her eyes. She keeps her knees pressed tightly to her chest, still, but the water is warm and steaming around her, and his touch is gentle and careful. She allows herself to doze.

She awakens to Solas uncorking her rose oil and beginning to work the oil into her hair. He had procured her comb and is working it through the mess that is her hair, left unbrushed for days. The familiar scent comforts her, though she knows it’s probably a lot of work for him. She knows how tangled her hair can get, and what a hassle taking care of it can be.

“I should just cut it all off,” she mutters.

“If you wish, though I hope you do not. I am very fond of your hair,” he admits.

His words make her think of lazy evenings, when their work was done and they could rest; she would lie across his sofa with her head in his lap, and he would stroke her hair as he told her a dozen different stories.

Her smile fades at the thought, and she looks down at her hands, tucked between her knees and her chest. Solas’s hands still, and she wonders if he is thinking of those nights as well. But a moment later he resumes his task, gathering the combed wet mass of her rose-scented hair into his hands and beginning to braid it. He uses a simple style, and ties it with the leather band that she offers him. Carefully, he moves her hair to drape it over her shoulder, leaving her neck and shoulders bare to his gaze.

“May I wash your back?” he asks.

She nods, sitting up at his gentle urging and leaning forward, exposing the entire upper half of her Mother’s mark. Solas’s callused fingertips brush against a branch that winds over her right shoulder, tracing the leaves patterned into her skin, and she cannot fight her shiver. His hand withdraws at once, accompanied by a whispered apology. He lathers his hands in soap and puts his hands on her back, his hands firmly working at the muscles under her skin. She sighs as he massages away her tension, closing her eyes and enjoying the warmth of his hands on her skin.

She’s forgotten how nice it can be, to be touched.

“Was the night sky really full of color, in Elvhenan?” she asks. “I dreamed of auroras.”

Solas’s thumb presses into a knot in the center of her back, and she yelps, back arching away. He holds her steady, though, and soon the knotted muscle loosens with a twinge, and her exhale betrays her relief. “Better?” he asks, resting both his hands on her shoulders. She nods, reaching back and clasping her hand over one of his. Solas takes a breath and resumes his wash-slash-massage, using the cloth to wipe away the soapy residue on her skin.

“Yes,” he finally says. “The night sky’s colors were ever-changing, and varied with as many color combinations as you can imagine. Imagine snaking lines of turquoise and sea green that wind around the crescent moons, followed by gleaming clouds of scarlet and purple and orange that drifted through the stars.”

“What changed?” she asks.

His hands smooth down her shoulders, stopping just above the waterline. “May I go lower?” he asks. When she nods, he leans forward, until she can feel his breath on her neck. His palms go below the water to knead at her back, massaging with brutal efficiency. He presses against a sore muscle and she winces, hissing. He gentles his touch at once, breathing out an apology.

“I have told you that Elvhenan was a land of magic,” he eventually says, “and that is true. To the ancient elves, magic was as part of them as your heart is part of you. Magic was the bedrock of Elvhenan, and it was from magic that we drew our power and our immortality. Both were lost when the Veil was raised.”

She stills at that, her eyes widening. “The Veil was _raised_? That’s not—”

“Possible? Not true. This world has forgotten its origins. While the Elvhen lived, magic was limitless, as were its possibilities. But when the Veil was raised, that changed. It was not the humans who destroyed my people.” He swallows, and the silence hangs oddly, as if he had meant to say more but stopped himself.

She stills, turning halfway in the tub until she can meet his gaze. He averts his gaze at once, but she grabs his chin and lifts it, forcing him to look at her. “How do you know this?” she asks.

He smiles, wanly. When he speaks, his voice is rough. “Raising the Veil destroyed my people. Do you think I did not witness the consequences?”

Ariala stares at him, but does not release his chin. They watch each other until the ship rocks and her stomach gives an unsteady lurch, making bile rise in the back of her throat. Ariala twists away, hands moving to grip the sides of the tub, as she closes her eyes and breathes through her nose, inhaling rose and soap. She swallows down her bile, fighting the instinct to vomit, as the ship rocks again, unsteady.

She feels Solas’s fingertips brush against her back, a light, hesitant touch. Despite herself, she leans back, allowing his touch. She hears his shaking exhale as he rests his palms on her back, tracing the branches of the Mother’s mark.

“Did the ancient elves, in all their glory, ever invent a spell to cure seasickness?” she asks, once the worst of her nausea passes. She leans over the side of the tub, reaching for her ginger water, and gulps down two mouthfuls, cringing at the sharp taste afterward.

“If they did, I do not remember it,” he says, resuming his massage, his hands drifting up to knead at her shoulders. She mutters a curse, and his soft laughter is her answer. He stays with her, massaging her shoulders and back, until her muscles are loose and liquidy, free of the tension built up over the course of her journey.

She eats more of her breakfast and lets her skin prune, even as the water begins to cool. When she mentions it, Solas reheats it with a gesture, and she looks over her shoulder, giving him a soft half-smile. “Thank you.”

Solas inclines his head, rising to his feet. “I will bring a towel and your bedroll.”

She watches him leave, her knees still tucked against her chest, and waits for him to return with her things. Once he is gone, tying the linen dividers shut behind him, she rises from the bath and takes her soap in hand. Carefully, she washes what Solas had not: her stomach, the skin between her breasts, the soft tufts of hair under her arms and between her legs. She uses her cloth to scrub the grime from her face until her skin is flushed and raw. Once that is done, she sits in the bath, staring at her kneecaps, the tops of which protrude from the water. It’s probably late morning now; the ginger water has helped her stomach settle, but she knows that won’t last.

She takes care as she roots through her clothes. She had not packed much—no belt save one, no scarves or jewelry—but she is clean and washed and, right now, she wants to look nice. Maybe she won’t care in an hour or so, but right now is what matters. So she selects a long-sleeved deep green tunic and deep brown leathers, paired with black footwraps and a reinforced leather vest. Once she is dressed, she checks her appearance in the mirror. Once she is satisfied that she does not look like a corpse, she repacks her bedroll and unties the linen dividers, stepping through.

Solas sits at Captain Abram’s desk, absorbed in another book of _Hard in Hightown_. Ariala half-smiles and crosses the room, depositing her bedroll beside Solas’s. Then, after a brief moment of hesitation, she goes to the bookshelf and selects _Hard in Hightown, vol. 1_. She retreats to the bed, curling up on the mattress, and opens the cover.

“I will not tell Varric if you do not,” Solas says across the room. She looks up to see him watching her, the book in his lap forgotten despite being almost finished. She huffs a laugh and winks at him.

“I’ll just say it’s for reading practice.”

“An excellent reason.” Solas glances down at the book before looking back at her. “I would not describe Master Tethras’s literature as… ah…”

“Good?” she asks, wryly.

Solas chuckles and nods. “I would have chosen _complex._ Still, I shall have to ask him about his characters when we return. Everyone except Donnen has thus far turned out to be a spy or a traitor—”

She grabs the pillow propped under her back and chucks it at his head with as much force as she can muster. He catches it, looking alarmed and a little annoyed, and she shouts, “Solas! _Spoilers!_ ”

— ✦ —

Despite her ginger water, she ends up clinging to the side of the ship after dinner, trying desperately not to lose what little she’d eaten. She’d sent Solas on ahead to the captain’s quarters, promising to follow soon, but she suspects that if she stays out here much longer he’ll come looking for her.

Ugh.

Why can’t her stomach just… behave?

As if in response, her stomach churns, and she clings to the side of the ship, willing her body to obey her thoughts. She looks up at the sky, trying to ignore her nausea in favor of counting the stars. It’s a clear night; she can see a handful of constellations, Fenrir and the Voyager and the Mother’s Tree and the Maiden.

“Your Worship,” someone says behind her. Captain Abram’s voice. Ariala digs her nails into the wood as she turns with a forced smile, trying to ignore the queasiness in her stomach.

“Captain,” she says, trying to make her tone light. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to apologize, again,” he says, standing beside her. He sets his hands on the wooden railing and leans forward, not looking at her. The lantern’s lamp from the nearby stairs that led to the helm shines orange on his face, revealing a clenched jaw. Captain Abram looks down. “For doubting you.”

“Oh.” The ship rocks and she swallows the bile rising in the back of her throat. When she can breathe again, she manages, “It’s understandable. I would’ve wanted some proof too, in your place.” Especially since there are, apparently, a whole bunch of Dalish elves running around saying they’re her.

“Jimmy’s taking care of our elderly mother,” he says. “I send what I can, but it’s not much. Lord Woolsley’s been with Jimmy for three years. Redcliffe has a harvest festival every year, and livestock can be entered into… beauty contests, I suppose is what they are. Winner gets seventy-five sovereigns. The Arl gives out the money himself. Lord Woolsley’s been the winner for two straight years. That ram’s kept my brother and mother alive for the past three years.” He turns to face her, resting his weight on his elbow. “So I cannot tell you how much helping him helped my family.”

Ariala nods, not trusting herself to speak, though she wishes she could express her surprise. Her entire party had thought it a waste of time—the druffalo one, at least, had had some money as a reward—so she’d taken last watch, and when the rest of them were asleep, tracked the animal to a small island near the edge of the lake. She remembers, very clearly, watching the sunset-colored ram run off and thinking _well, that was dumb_.

But it had been worth it in the end. Good.

“And I want you to know,” the captain says then, “I’ve always treated my elves well.”

Moment ruined.

Ariala turns her face away, rolling her eyes, and tries to breathe slowly, to settle her stomach. Heedless of her wordless scorn, the captain just keeps talking. “I know Andraste sent you to shame us for our treatment of the elves, and our broken promise to give them the Dales. Me, I never saw the point in looking down on the elves. They want to get rich and take care of their families just like humans, but they’re forced into alienages and worse. On a ship, no one cares about the shape of your ears.”

Ariala thinks about that captain in Hercinia who’d called her a “knife-eared wench” to her face, and said elves were bad luck. Out of the corner of her eye, Captain Abram looks at her, expecting a response. She leans on the ship’s side, swallowing down bile, and turns her head to smile, weakly, at him.

Then the ship rocks, and her stomach _heaves_. Ariala gags and twists away from the captain, leaning over the side of the ship just in time to empty her stomach. She senses more than sees the captain recoil from her, which is just as well, because Ariala barely has time to breathe before her stomach roils and more of her dinner comes back up. Her throat burns and she can taste the salted pork and the biscuits they’d had for dinner on the back of her tongue. Gross.

Gods, she hates the ocean. Hates it with a burning passion.

When she finally gets some respite and is left panting and draped over the side of the ship, Captain Abram is still there. Gods. _Leave already_ , she thinks.

“I did not know you were seasick,” he says. “I’ll have the cook prepare something for your stomach immediately, Your Worship.”

Ariala opens her eyes, but another round of retching seizes her, preventing her response. She hears the captain’s footsteps and slumps when she’s certain he’s gone, panting, barely able to keep herself on her feet. After several rounds of seasickness, she hears a different set of footsteps, and soon there are warm, callused hands taking her hair in hand, pulling it from where most of it dangles over her shoulder into a low ponytail behind her head. Ariala closes her eyes as Solas begins to rub circles into the small of her back.

“We are halfway there,” he tells her. “I have been informed we are almost past Ostwick.”

“ _Ugh_.” Ariala turns her head and rests her cheek on the wood, closing her eyes, ignoring the nausea that worsens with every sound of the boat creaking, or the ocean waves. Even the smell of salt is enough to make her queasy. “So, what, two more days?”

“Yes.” For his part, he sounds apologetic, even as he strokes her hair.

“ _Ugh_.”

She ends up stuck there for most of the night, Solas by her side. Her stomach is empty and her throat burns, and her stomach feels like a clenched fist inside her abdomen. At some point, Captain Abram returns with the tea, though Solas’s presence keeps him from trying his hand at another conversation with her. Ariala sips at the tea once he’s gone, and grimaces. Too watery. It wouldn’t help her stomach at all. _Ugh._

It had been a nice gesture, though. Doesn’t make up for the “I’ve always treated my elves right” nonsense, but—still.

“I think that he’s going to ask me to bless his ship or something,” she finally mutters, once her nausea has receded into uncomfortable rather than debilitating. “Once we’re at Amaranthine.”

“Almost certainly,” he says, far too cheerful for her liking. Ariala manages to open one eye and gives him a half-hearted scowl. He’s leaning on the railing beside her, hands clasped loosely, his skin a faint blue in the darkness. Captain Abram is at the helm, and if she turns her head enough she can see him, hands on the wheel.

She does not turn her head. She keeps her attention on Solas, reaching out to halfheartedly smack his arm. “You’re not supposed to _agree_.”

“You are a religious figure to him, the one who speaks on his god’s behalf. Why would he not seek out your blessing?”

Ariala scowls at the dark water below, its hints of blue barely visible in the night. She opens her mouth to reply but all that comes out is a miserable moan. She drapes her arms over the side of the ship, resting her forehead atop the wood. When Solas resumes rubbing circles into her back, she arches like a cat, seeking out more of his touch.

Once she swallows down the bile in the back of her throat, she says, “Because I’m _not_.”

Solas hums under his breath, a noncommittal answer. “Yet you have never, to my knowledge, publicly denied your status as the humans’ Herald.” She can’t tell if he sounds disapproving or not. Before she can puzzle it out, he continues. “Belief is a powerful thing, Inquisitor. You gave many hope in a dark time, and now that Corypheus’s threat is waning, you are left a powerful player on the world stage. Have you given any thought to what you will do, once Corypheus’s threat is ended?”

“No,” she says. “I… my plan was to just dissolve the Inquisition and go back to my clan.” The ship rocks and she leans over the ship’s side, her knees weakening underneath her. Once she’s recovered enough to speak, she manages to push herself to standing position on shaking arms and looks at him. “But now… I don’t know. I’ll probably help the People.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “How?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.” She swallows, hard, wincing at the dry, tacky taste in her mouth. “Besides, we’re assuming that I’ll actually defeat Corypheus, or at least survive it.”

He touches her shoulder, and she glances at him. The intensity in his gaze catches her by surprise, and she cannot stop her soft exhale. When he steps closer, his shoulder brushing against hers, she does not step away. He lowers his head, touching his brow to hers, and she closes her eyes when his hand wraps around her arm. “You will not die,” he promises, his voice only a whisper.

Ariala opens her eyes, meeting his gaze in the darkness, but finds she has no words. “Everyone dies, Solas.”

His throat works in a swallow, and a stricken look flits over his face. After a moment, he pulls away, and Ariala looks back out at the sea, dark and unfathomable and stretching out toward the midnight horizon.

It is a long time before he finally speaks again. “Do you think you are well enough to return to your room?”

Ariala swallows, throat dry and burning, trying to rid herself of the bitter aftertaste in her mouth. “Maybe,” she says, glancing at the helm over her shoulder. Captain Abram sees her, and lifts an arm in a wave. She waves back and grimaces the moment she turns away. “He makes me so uncomfortable.”

Solas glances at the helm, then nods. “All the more reason to retire, then.”

He supports her when she lets go of the ship’s rail, and though her legs feel weak, ready to give out beneath her, she manages to walk all the way to Captain Abram’s quarters. Her first stop is behind the linen partition, where she cleans her teeth as thoroughly as possible, then does it again for good measure. When she comes out, Solas has pulled the captain’s chair to the bedside. He’d lit the candles in the room, casting the space in a warm glow of gold and orange. He looks up as she approaches, and she sees the apple of his throat bob as he swallows.

“May I see your hand?” he asks, once she’s sat down on the bed, facing directly opposite him. Brow furrowing, she does, and he cradles her palm between his own as he pulls her hand toward him. He examines the Mark in silence, lips pursed. He touches the veins that had been tinted green and looks up at her. “When did this happen?”

“The first attack. Back at the camp.”

His jaw clenches. “Why did you not tell me of it?”

“Solas, you were there. You saw it. Did you not notice?”

His fingers tremble when he brushes them over her palm, and he swallows, lowering his eyes. “I suppose I was too focused on the Anchor,” he murmurs. “I apologize. Have you had any more… attacks, like this morning?”

“No. Just the two.”

His exhale betrays his relief, and he squeezes his eyes shut, bowing his head. After a moment, his expression smoothes over, revealing nothing as he opens his eyes and releases her hand. “You will tell me, if any more occur?” he asks, lifting his gaze to hers, his voice almost pleading. Ariala curls onto her side and stares at him, tucking her left hand underneath her body.

“You won’t always be there to help me, Solas,” she says.

She had meant it as a simple observation, a statement of truth for all that its acknowledgement felt like a heavy, sickening stone in the center of her chest, but it seems to cut him to the quick: he blinks and lowers his gaze, expression stricken, one hand going to clasp the opposite wrist with a bruising grip.

Ariala sits up, propping herself up on her hand. She is within arm’s reach of him, but she forces herself to stay her hand. She had made her choice. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, quietly.

“It was a fair point,” Solas says. After a moment, he stands and crosses the room, his broad shoulders outlined in blue moonlight, casting a long shadow across the floor. He clasps his hands behind his back, silent as he regards the sea through the windows. His shoulders are stiff, body tense, weighed down by whatever heavy thoughts plague him.

Once, she would have gotten up and gone after him. She would have pressed her cheek to the space between his shoulder blades and wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight until he relaxed against her and accepted her touch. They would have stood, unmoving, until Solas would give in with a sigh and touch her wrist, a signal for her to release him so he could turn around. He would have held her face between his warm hands and told her what weighed on his mind.

But that was before Crestwood, and before she had decided she could never trust him again.

So Ariala stays on the bed and waits. After a moment, Solas’s shoulders bow. “It also brings to question what we can do to prevent the Anchor’s future deterioration.” He turns, looking at her over his shoulder. “I will share my notes with Dorian and the Enchanter. Both are brilliant mages and scholars in their own right, they surely will be able to…” He trails off, and she hears him swallow. “They surely will be able to find a way to prevent the decay, or at least slow it.”

“Solas. Come here.” She lowers herself to recline fully on the bed, watching him, and after a moment he turns and returns to his chair, running his hands down his face. Ariala rests her hands on her stomach and stares at him, counting his freckles in the moonlight, the individual shadows that his eyelashes cast upon his bruised skin.

“So there’s no cure,” she surmises. “Only management of symptoms.”

“You bear the power meant for those you called gods,” he whispers, hoarsely. “Such might was not meant for mortal hands.”

Ariala exhales and turns her head, staring at the ceiling. Her stomach churns, still uneasy despite her prior seasickness. “Well,” she says finally, mouth working before her brain can consider her own words. “At least I know what to look forward to. Eaten alive by my own magical hand. What a way to go. Tell Varric that’s how I want it written down.”

Solas’s eyes narrow, gleaming in the moonlight. “Do not jest about that.”

She doesn’t bother to reply. Solas stays with her for a while, but eventually retires to his bedroll on the floor, leaving her to toss and turn for hours until she falls asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

When she dreams of Elvhenan, she dreams of the Crossroads. But they are not what Morrigan had shown her—they are a vibrant, breathing network, powered by magic and brimming with life. Ariala explores them, ignoring the elven shades that pass her. Trees are forever in bloom, and the air is as warm as summer. She finds a city built under the ocean, shielded from the water by a large, crystal-clear magical barrier, and watches a large, singing sea creature swim by, almost as large as the city’s tallest building. Only an hour’s walk through the Crossroads later, she roams a town built between an oasis and a desert, an entire continent away.

 _This is what we lost_ , the Well tells her.

 _So what_ , she thinks.

The Well does not reply.

— ✦ —

She spends as much time as possible in Captain Abram’s room for the rest of the two days they have on sea. Solas is more than willing to get her food, and her seasickness isn’t so bad when she’s curled up on a fetal position in the bed. For a large majority of the remaining voyage, she remains in bed, staring at the wall in silence. She has only gotten up twice—once to relieve herself, and the second after a half-hour of mental chastisement for her laziness. Even then, she had only crossed the room to retrieve Varric’s books and had returned to bed feeling as if she had just hiked across the Hinterlands.

She hadn’t even been halfway through _Hard in Hightown vol. 1_ before the old fatigue had returned, settling deep into her bones, and she had set the book aside to take a six-hour nap. Solas had finished the entire series, claiming it was out of “morbid curiosity,” but she’d seen his little reactions to whatever was going on in the books—his slight frowns, his wide eyes, his furrowed brow. One time his mouth actually dropped open and then he had scowled and muttered _Varric._

So it is with great reluctance that she drags herself out of bed on the last day of their voyage, takes the first five volumes and crawls back into bed with the books tucked within her arms. She manages not to get too queasy while doing so, which she’ll take as a victory. Solas is gone, off getting her food or inquiring about any seasickness remedies—she’d already drank all of her ginger water—or playing cards with the crew in an attempt to win them more money. She’s not quite sure which of the three he’s actually doing. But his absence guarantees her privacy, and allows her the chance to read aloud, her fingertip running along the underside of the words. It had helped her when she was first learning how to read, back when she had smuggled books meant for toddlers up to her room and tried to read them by candlelight.

Dorian had made fun of her for whispering the words, until he realized she hadn’t known how to read. Then he’d apologized, thoroughly, by buying her a free night’s worth of drinks. When she had “volunteered” him to go to the Fallow Mire with her to close recently opened rifts, he had not made a single complaint, even though he’d had to burn his clothes afterward. That was the first and last time that had ever happened.

She is almost done with volume four of _Hard in Hightown_ when Solas finally returns to the cabin, carrying a tray of fishy-smelling broth, a ginger tea yet to be steeped, and a bag of coins. Ariala blinks, her eyebrows raising, and cannot help her incredulous laugh. “You are so amazing,” she says. Solas flushes a light shade of pink and tilts his head, a small smile curling the corner of his mouth. Ariala lifts her hands toward him, palms up, and makes a grabby motion. “Gimme the tea.”

He obeys, setting the tray at the center of the foot of her bed. He sits next to it, steadying it when it wobbles, then glances at her. Ariala meets his gaze for a heartbeat before focusing on making her ginger tea. Once the tea is steeping, Solas asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she says.

 _Empty_ , she thinks. _Hollow. Numb._

“Your hand does not pain you?”

“No.”

“Ah.” He nods to himself, glancing away. “That is excellent news.”

“You know what’s not excellent?” she asks, grabbing a piece of hardtack. She tries to rip off a chunk of it, but it’s so stiff that it honestly feels it’d be easier to just break a rock in half, so she returns it to her plate and resolves to soak it in her tea once it’s ready. The refried beans and the stew don’t look particularly appetizing either. She leans back on the bed, twisting around and grabbing _Hard in Hightown vol. 4_. “Varric’s writing. I don’t know why you like it so much.”

Solas snorts, his eyebrows rising. “And what gave you the impression I enjoyed it?”

“Solas, you stayed up all night reading them when we got here. And you’re halfway through reading _The Tale of the Champion_.”

“I am interested in his portrayal of the characters,” Solas says, sounding a little too defensive for someone who knocks Varric’s writing talent whenever possible. Ariala narrows her eyes at him. Solas arches an eyebrow, a silent challenge. Ariala rolls her eyes and turns onto her stomach, opening the book in her hands and pressing her fingertip under the first word.

“Listen to this: ‘ _The Dragon's Jewels_ was a big boat. She liked big boats. The pointy bits towered ma-maj-majestically over the water. That roundish wooden part seemed like it could crush ar-armadas beneath its... shit, I don't know, wood.’ That shit part was an actual quote, by the way. Okay, here’s the rest. ‘It was the greatest boat in the history of boats.’ Wow.”

“And the man wishes to write about the Inquisition,” Solas muses. He pulls out the teabag and pours a cup for her. “I wonder what he shall say about all of us.”

“Just think of the worst way he can ever describe you, and there you go,” Ariala says, sipping the tea while trying to keep the book open. After a moment, she marks her place with a corner of the bedsheet and nudges the book off to the side, a grin slowly spreading across her face. “Wait. I think I’ve got it.”

Solas gives her a dispassionate look. “Oh?”

“He would absolutely describe you as the ‘bald elf,’ right, so maybe—something dramatic, like, okay, you’re taking down a red templar or something… aha! Got it.” She affects a deeper voice, using Varric’s southern Marcher accent, rougher and coarser than hers. “ _The bald elf spun, mage staff crackling like_ … uh… oh, got it, _mage staff crackling like the city after a good man’s murder_.” Despite herself, she laughs, the idea growing more appealing, and funnier, the longer she dwells on it.

Solas groans, rolling his eyes. “Please do not continue. I can imagine the rest.”

“Moonlight—” She laughs again, so long and so loud she has trouble catching her breath to continue her description. Tears bead the corners of her eyes. She gasps out: “Moonlight glinted off of ears like the knives you never see coming—”

Solas gives her a half-hearted glare, a faint smile on his face. He marks his spot in the chapter and sets it aside, shaking his head. “Ariala, _please_ —”

She’s laughing almost too hard to continue, now, doubled over and wheezing. “And the apostate said—”

He’s laughing too, even as he shakes his head and says, “ _I beg you_ —”

“‘Better to _fade out_ than _burn away!_ ’” she shrieks, cackling as he lunges for her, hands reaching out in a desperate attempt to distract her from her frankly _glorious_ literary description of him. He takes her mug of tea and sets it aside, and then he is upon her. His fingers find her sides, right where she is most ticklish. She curls away from him, still laughing even as she bats his hands away. “So bad,” she gasps, laughing when he draws her against him. “It’s so bad.”

“Indeed,” he says, though she feels his smile against her hair. “Are you quite finished?”

She holds up a finger, trying to catch her breath, her stomach aching. Finally, her amusement passes, and she feels her smile slip off her face, as easily as water runs through fingers. She leans against Solas, her eyes closing, weighed down by an abrupt heaviness. It’s still morning, but this single conversation has somehow, inexplicably, sapped her of all energy. She wants to return to the warm comfort under her covers and sleep.

The thought makes her irrationally angry. She had slept away most of the morning, anyway; how could she still be tired? Gods, what was _wrong_ with her?

“Captain Abram reports that we have had excellent winds,” Solas tells her, his voice pulling her from her dark thoughts. “He is optimistic that we will reach Amaranthine early tonight, or at the very latest tomorrow before dawn.”

“ _Finally_.”

Solas smiles. “So eager to reach land?” he teases, and she grimaces at him, retrieving her tea and her book in sullen silence.

By the end of the day, she has suffered through most of the _Hard in Hightown_ books and the _Tale of the Champion_. She’d preferred _Tale of the Champion_ , and it was only because of Merrill, who had easily been the most interesting character, and not just because of her being Dalish. She had heard of the Sabrae clan’s slaughter, of course, but the details had always varied depending on who you talked to.

She thinks she would like to meet her, one day.

“Do you think Varric was lying about Merrill’s eluvian?” she asks Solas.

“It is possible. Its description matched no eluvian that I have ever seen. And it should not have been able to be tainted by the Blight. Though I admit, I am more ignorant of the Blight than I would like to be.”

“Really? Your conversations with Rainier suggested otherwise,” she says, watching him.

Solas’s lips purse. “The Blight is something that cannot be treated as a common disease. The Wardens are under the impression that, if the Archdemons are all destroyed, then the Blight will be destroyed as well.”

“And you think that’s wrong,” she surmises.

“Magic is a song,” he says. “The Fade and the waking world were meant to work in tandem, as an orchestra works together to bring out the most subtle notes of a grand symphony. You cannot hear it as I do, or even as Dorian or the Enchanter do. The Archdemons are… well. The Blight corrupts that song, turns it from a harmonious note to a cacophonous one, and it drives the darkspawn mad. It draws them to the Archdemons, provides for them a focus for their efforts to locate this single cacophonous note.”

He looks at her. “What happens when that focus no longer exists? Do you suppose, as the Grey Wardens do, that the darkspawn will simply retreat into the deepest parts of the Deep Roads, to live the rest of their lives in peace and leave the rest of us unmolested? Or will they pour into the world with no organization, a single swarm that the world cannot hope to combat?”

Ariala stares at him. She drums her fingers against the cover of _Tale of the Champion_. “Holy shit,” she says. “I definitely did not want to think about that, ever, thanks.”

Solas stares at her. “If it helps, I do not think that will happen for several more decades,” he offers.

“How would that possibly help?” she asks, flopping back down onto the bed and drawing the covers up to her chin. “ _Ugh_. I’m going to have nightmares about darkspawn invasions now. Thanks. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he replies, and to her annoyance she can hear a faint amusement in his voice. She turns her head, glaring at him through slitted eyes. He only offers her a noncommittal shrug, then takes up her discarded copy of _Tale of the Champion_ and begins to re-read it from the beginning.

Honestly.

Ariala flops over and stays awake for hours, thinking about darkspawn invasions and singing and, inexplicably, the painting of Ghilan’nain she had seen in one of her visions, holding a sphere of carved stone with electric blue liquid dripping between her fingers. The Well whispers to her, but softly, their myriad voices too unintelligible to make out. A migraine throbs behind her eyes.

She sees that same blue ( _almost like lyrium_ , she thinks) on the backs of her eyelids when she finally falls asleep.

— ✦ —

By the time they dock in Amaranthine, it is long past sundown—so late, in fact, that she doubts that there are any inns that are still open. Captain Abram gives them a discount fare for their passage on his ship, but even that takes over half their money. Surprisingly, he does not get down on one knee and ask her to ask Andraste to bless his ship and his crew. Instead, he only salutes her in the Ferelden style, with a fisted hand over his heart and a half-bow at the waist. “I wish you luck on your voyage, Your Worship,” he tells her. “May the Maker and his Bride our Lady watch over your travels.”

Ariala forces a smile, nods, and turns away. She is the first to disembark the ship, and only the knowledge that she is surrounded by people keeps her from kneeling and kissing the cobblestones. Her stomach settles the moment she is on solid ground, leaving her light-headed, and she reaches behind her to help Solas down the gangplank. He gives her an amused look but takes her hand nonetheless. She releases him the moment he is on steady ground and ignores how his fingers curl in toward his palm in her absence.

“Let’s find an inn,” she says. “I’m exhausted.”

“You slept all day,” he says, and she looks away, hoping that will be enough to hide the flush of embarrassment that blooms hot across her cheeks and ears. Still, Solas seems to catch himself. “Ariala. I apologize. I did not mean to imply…”

“It’s fine,” she says. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. Let’s just… let’s just go, okay? Before Captain Abram changes his mind and actually asks me to bless his ship.”

Solas falls into step beside her, silent, though when she glances at him his mouth is set in a narrow, unhappy line.

After what seems like hours of wandering, they finally find an inn with its lantern still lit in the window. A human woman sits before a crackling fireplace, reading a book. She looks up at their entrance and a shadow crosses over her face.

“Don’t have any rooms for you, friends,” she says, before either Ariala or Solas can say anything. She licks her finger and turns a page, glancing down at her book. “Better check the alienage. They have a place for your kind there.”

Ariala glances around the empty foyer. “No rooms,” she says. “I see.” She crosses her arms. “Isn’t your arlessa an elf? Who, if I recall correctly, _saved this city_ about ten years ago?”

“Arlessa hasn’t been here in years, and you’re not her besides,” the woman replies, looking up and narrowing her eyes at them. “Off to the alienage with you.”

Ariala swallows, feeling her cheeks flush, then glances at Solas and turns to go. He holds the door open for her, jaw clenched. Once they are outside, she puts her hand on his arm, noting how he relaxes at her touch.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“It’s not your fault that people are terrible,” she replies, withdrawing her hand. “Besides, she’s missing out. I’m going to give the alienage innkeep two sovereigns.”

He says nothing. Ariala sighs, picks a street, and starts walking.

They find the alienage only half an hour later—Amaranthine, for a port city, isn’t very large. She can still see evidence of the darkspawn attack from a decade ago, in old stains, and ruined buildings, and shells of structures that no longer exist. The alienage gates are open, though flanked by two human guards in full plate armor. Solas draws her aside before they can spot either of them.

“They will not allow our weapons inside,” he says, gesturing to her bow and his staff. “Allow me.”

She nods, and he lifts his hands, glowing with gentle magic that washes over her like water. When he lowers his hands, she glances down at herself. She doesn’t look different, doesn’t _feel_ different, but Solas nods and turns toward the guards. They emerge from the shadows of the streets, catching the guards’ attention at once. As they draw closer, one guard’s eyes rove over them both, narrowed in thought.

They get stopped at the gate. “What are you doing in the streets so late at night, travelers?” one guard asks.

“We had booked a merchant vessel to take us from Hercinia and have just entered the city,” Solas says, calm. Ariala suppresses the urge to adjust her bow bag, to move it behind her. “We had heard there was an inn here. We shall depart in the morning.”

The guards look at each other, then nod. “Turn over any weapons you might have,” the other says. “You may retrieve them from the guard barracks in the morning.”

Ariala doesn’t move. Solas’s hand moves to his belt, but all he does is withdraw the hunting knife at his side and give it to the expectant guard. He has a second one just like it in his pack. The guard holds out his palm to her, and reluctantly she does the same, handing over the dagger that always rests on her hip when traveling. Its absence makes her feel overly exposed, even though she knows she doesn’t need a dirk to defend herself.

After surrendering their weapons, the guards wave them through. The alienage’s architecture is different from the rest of the city’s—while Amaranthine’s buildings are solid and sturdy, made of sandstone and red-tile roofs, these houses are made of wood and beige plaster with thatch roofing. Many of them are tilted to the side, as if they had simply been pushed over by the wind and had never been straightened.

She also notes that they are easily flammable, and easily re-constructed.

She wonders how often this alienage has been burned.

As they draw closer to the center of the alienage, she can hear faint sounds of music, and laughter, and celebration. She exchanges a glance with Solas. “Let us find the inn first,” he says. “Then we may investigate.”

Eventually, they have to ask a woman carrying a basket full of laundry for directions. She almost drops it all into the street at the sight of their weapons, but Ariala helps steady her, and eventually she points them the right way. “Left staircase, third floor,” she tells them.

The inn is part of a larger house, one that could easily fit five different families. The door opens into a central courtyard ringed in staircases, as well as several doors on the ground level. Ariala climbs up the left staircase to the third floor, where a candle is lit outside, on its last dregs. When she opens the door, a bell ringing above them, the room is empty and lit only by an active fireplace.

From somewhere upstairs, a scratchy, irritated voice calls out: “ _Wait just one second_.”

Ariala listens to the floorboards creak as the person moves above them. Finally, with several thumps on the stairs, a weathered old man—the oldest elf she’s ever seen, older than her grandmother, even—emerges from the top of the stairs, one hand gripping the polished rail and the other holding his walking cane. His hair is wispy and snowy white, and his face is lined in wrinkles and dotted with age spots. Ariala steps forward, lifting her hand, but he waves her away. “Don’t need that,” he grumbles, though it takes him several more minutes to reach the floor. Ariala looks over her shoulder to see Solas staring at the man, horror naked on his face. She elbows him and he swallows, hard, expression quickly smoothing over.

When he finally reaches the floor, he seems half of Solas’s height, bowed over his cane. A scar stretches from his forehead and through a blinded eye, ending nearly at his jaw. He squints up at Ariala. “Dalish, eh? Not from Wycome, then.” He jabs a finger at Solas. “You from Wycome?”

Ariala blinks. “Wycome?” she asks.

“Yeah. Guess you wouldn’t have heard, eh, what with you… being Dalish.” He coughs into his fist, a rasping, wet sound that makes Solas shudder. She elbows him again. When the man has recovered, inhaling ragged breaths, he refocuses on Ariala. “The city slaughtered their alienage. A few managed to get out, apparently. Some came here.”

Ariala cannot move. Her chest feels tight. There are Wycome survivors, _here_ , and they are only here and not in their homes across the sea because of _her_ choices—

Solas touches the back of her hand, just a brush of his finger against her skin. She inhales, sharply. “No,” she lies, hoarse. “No, I, I didn’t know that. Can we have a room for two, please?”

He nods, shuffling to a repurposed dining table, where a ledger sits open atop it. “Names?” he asks, and Ariala and Solas introduce themselves. He takes a few minutes to write their names into the ledger, then returns the quill to its inkpot. “That’ll be thirty silvers. Sixty if you want a bath drawn.”

Ariala takes out her purse and gives him two golden sovereigns. His eye bugs out of his face, and he promptly puts each one between his wooden teeth, biting down hard. Once he has proven their worth, he grins at them, his wrinkles becoming far more pronounced than before, almost covering his bad eye.

“You stole this, eh?” he asks, a slow grin spreading over his face, revealing a smile full of yellowed teeth. Ariala’s about to protest, but he winks at them and says, “Good on you both. I’ll take it.” He returns to the desk, bending down with an involuntary groan and returning with a simple iron key. “Room Four, up the stairs, two doors down from the left.”

“Thank you, hahren,” Ariala says, taking the key. The innkeep laughs at her.

“Hahren! Pfft. I’m no hahren, girl.”

Ariala presses her fingertips to her forehead and draws them away quickly, an old gesture of apology brought to the surface from memories of interactions with her clan elders. She can almost hear Terisin’s scolding in her ear. “I apologize. I forgot it was different with city-elves. With the Dalish—”

“I know about the Dalish and their elders, girl.” His green eye gleams with humor. “Now git. I need my beauty sleep. I’ll send a boy up for the bath.”

Ariala smiles, dipping her head. “That won’t be necessary,” she tells him, waiting for his nod before curling her fingers over the iron key. The innkeep’s gaze goes to their weapons, and after a brief moment of apprehension, he shrugs, turning back to the gold coins.

The house groans under their feet with every step. She finally finds a wooden door with a _4_ painted on its surface in white. When the door swings open, the room smells like dust and mothballs. There are two single beds pushed up against opposite ends of the wall, beds made for teenagers, and a single dresser. It is small, and cramped, but at least they won’t be sharing one bed.

She dumps her bedroll and her bow bag onto the bed, sitting down with a heavy sigh. Solas leans his staff against the wall, then crosses to her side of the room to open the window. As the air circulates, bringing a cool summer breeze and the sounds of celebration they’d heard earlier, Solas snaps his fingers and lights every candle in the room. Afterward, he sighs and returns to his bed, making Ariala look up.

“Hey,” she says. “What was that about, downstairs?”

“He was so… _old_ ,” Solas says, his gaze meeting hers across the room.

“Solas, you’re literally five thousand years old. At least.”

He gives no indication that he had heard her. The haunted look lingers. She can’t figure out why. Surely he’s been here long enough to see what elderly people looked like? He remains unmoving on the bed, his gaze distant and a slight furrow between his brows. He hasn’t even removed his pack yet. Ariala sighs and stands, rounding his bed, coaxing his arms from his pack straps.

“He looked, I don’t know, eighty-ish. That’s incredible.”

“Is it?” Solas asks, bitterly, and sweeps out an arm, gesturing to the empty room at large. “He had not even begun to realize his potential before his life was already over. Where are his children? His family? He is alone here, left to wither away and turn to dust. What is remarkable about that?”

“You don’t know how his life turned out,” she reminds him, and though her tone is gentle she can feel her patience wearing thin. “You don’t get to make judgements about a stranger, Solas. Maybe he outlived his children.”

“Even the notion of that is an unthinkable tragedy,” Solas whispers. “This—this should never have—” He cuts himself off and shudders again, lowering his head to press the heels of his palms into his eyes. Ariala remains silent, because, really, how does someone reply to that?

She lifts her head and walks across the room, toward the window. Above the roofs of the alienage, she can see flickering orange. A bonfire, maybe. Laughter and fiddle music are faint in the air. “Want to go investigate?” she asks.

A large part of her hopes that he will say no. She has no real interest in attending this celebration. She is tired, _exhausted_ , the fatigue weighing down her very bones like an invisible set of plate armor. She wants to slip under the covers and sleep.

But.

She has never seen an alienage that had not been destroyed. She has not yet met these Wycome survivors, and she cannot leave Amaranthine without meeting them. She will not run from this. She is done running from things.

“Certainly,” Solas says at last. Ariala re-ties her footwraps and redoes her bun, to dubious results. When she is ready, she follows Solas out the door.

It does not take them long to find the celebration, in the center of the alienage. Her gaze is immediately drawn to the vhenadahl in the middle of the square, which various couples are dancing around. It stretches high into the sky, its leaves dark green in the firelight and casting shadows over the cobblestones. Ribbons and streamers hang from its branches, swaying in the wind; its trunk is painted a variety of vibrant colors, all the way up to the first few branches.

It’s beautiful.

She thinks of Wycome, and a shriveled, rotting stump, and her chest aches.

Tables had been set up, assembled from a variety of surfaces—end tables, dining tables, even the seats of large chairs. All of them are piled high with platters of food and wine: edible food that isn’t nug or pheasant or hardtack. Ariala’s mouth waters, but she stays back, unsure if they are welcome to the food.

A boy notices them and jogs over to them. He’s gangly, pimpled, with a mop of brown hair and an endearing smile. “Heya!” he calls, slowing to a stop before them. A few more elves are noticing them, too, drawing away from the celebration to watch them. The boy sticks out his hand. “Sam.”

“Sam,” Ariala says, amused, and shakes his hand. “Hello. I am Ariala, and this is Solas.”

“You’re Aren’s guests, aren’t you? Well, come on then,” he says, leading them to the line of food and handing them two enamel plates. “Lina told us all about you guys. How’d you sneak the weapons past the guards?” He looks them over. “Oh. You don’t have any? Lina swore you did.”

“Guess Lina was just seeing things,” Ariala says, helping herself to the food. Sam watches them with a strange nervousness. She glances at Solas, who inclines his head slightly. He’s noticed it too. Ariala smiles at Sam. “What’s the celebration for?”

“The—oh! We’re celebrating a wedding.” Sam grins at her, completely ignoring Solas. “If you want to dance, just, uh, just hit me up!”

Solas scoffs behind her. She gives him a look, and he openly rolls his eyes at her, turning toward the food with a frown. She thanks Sam, who nods, blushing, and stutters out a goodbye before returning to his flock of friends.

“Hit me up,” Solas mutters once he is gone. “What does that even _mean_?”

“It meant he wants to dance with me,” she says, with a little laugh. Something inside her feels lighten, even though Sam cannot be older than seventeen. “I think it’s cute!” She pauses to take a bite of some bean paste that is actually much better than it had looked. Solas says nothing, and she takes a moment to glance at the celebrants.

They’ve formed some kind of circle, spinning to the beat of the drums and the tune of the fiddles. Someone had brought a tambourine and another had a wooden recorder. A woman breaks from the circle, dressed in white, wearing a golden-embroidered shawl that covers her from shoulders to elbow. Peonies are woven into her long blonde hair. Her bride joins her, dressed in the same outfit, though she is missing the peonies. Though all of them are wearing shoes, and all of them are bathed in the bonfire’s light and the shadow of the vhenadahl, Ariala thinks of Davhalla, dancing barefoot in front of the clan musicians, keeping up with her footwork and swapping jokes with Anuon and Adhlean without even breaking a sweat.

It is a bittersweet thought. People have always been people; this should not surprise her.

Across the square, Sam notices her and flashes her a thumbs up, offering a grin. Ariala huffs a laugh and turns back to Solas, walking with him to a quiet place near the feasting tables, where the elves had brought out what appears to be their own furniture. There are couches next to dining tables and wooden chairs, and padded stools and armchairs. Ariala settles on one of the couches, and Solas joins her. He’d put more food on his plate than she had with hers—wordlessly, he leans over and scrapes some sausage onto her plate, and gives her a second loaf of the braided sweetbread.

She frowns at him, but he looks utterly unapologetic. “You don’t need to act like I’m on the brink of starving to death,” she tells him. “I eat.”

“Ariala, a few days ago you only ate once, and that was at ten o’clock at night.” She stares at him, knowing she should feel ashamed, or at least embarrassed, by her lack of an appetite, but she just feels… nothing. Solas’s gaze softens. “Please,” he says.

She sighs and tears off a piece of sweetbread. Solas relaxes a little as she tucks into her meal—it’s the best food she’s had in _weeks_ , camp fare included, so she can’t be too put out about Solas babying her—and they sit, shoulder-to-shoulder, quietly observing the wedding festivities. The brides eventually break away from the other celebrants with a small group, probably the family and closest friends, and move to the other side of the vhenadahl with a stooped old woman. Ariala watches as the woman carefully binds the brides’ left and right hands in red stripes of fabric. Red for the heart, for true, enduring love.

Her clan had used many different colored strips of cloth in their weddings—red and green and gold chief among them. Red for the heart, green for fertility, gold for the gods and for a bright future. Theron and Lyra had had blue and purple ribbons for their bonding, simply because those had been their favorite colors. She remembers that because her grandmother had given her matching glass beads to put in her hair for the celebration. They had feasted for a week and a day, and on the last day, Deshanna had brought Lyra to a nearby spring. Ariala had been there with the other clan women, watching as Deshanna anointed the new bride with spring water and stag’s blood, singing a prayer to the Mother to bless her with children.

She doesn’t remember the words to that prayer anymore. Barely remembers the tune.

A lump wells in her throat at that thought, and she looks away from the brides, her gaze falling upon Solas. He is watching the ceremony with a detached interest, but his gaze soon drops down to hers. “What is it?” he asks.

“We have pretty much the same tradition,” Ariala says. “We bind both of their hands together, not just one each. You’re supposed to make a little braid of the ribbons used to bind your hands and hang it above the aravel doorway. That way, when you storm out after a fight but return to the aravel, you see the braid and remember the happiness of your wedding day. It didn’t always work out, but yeah, that was the spirit of it.”

“I did not see any braids on the aravels in your camp.”

“The aravels that were still standing were my grandmother’s, who was single, the one that the unbonded hunters shared, and the one that stored food,” she reminds him. He hums, absently reaching over and tearing off a piece of her sweetbread.

After he swallows, he asks, far too casually, “And if you had a choice? What color would your ribbons be?”

Her heart sinks. “Solas,” she says, and he averts his gaze, a graceful acknowledgement of her unspoken warning.

“Elvhenan was different,” he says at last. “Marriage was… exceedingly rare, simply by route of our lifespan. It was not something entered into easily, and it tended to be reserved for those who had remained together for several thousand years.”

He says it so… easily. _Several thousand years_. Ariala glances around, but no one is within earshot of them. She eats slowly, listening to his explanation. “One had to petition whomever they served for permission to marry their intended. Nobles petitioned the god they served, and slaves had to petition their master. Needless to say, many slaves preferred instead to elope, celebrating in secret with their communities, with their masters none the wiser.”

He falls silent then, something shadowed in his eyes. She rips off a piece of her sweetbread and offers it to him, and he thanks her quietly. They finish their meal in silence, Solas polishing off whatever she doesn’t eat, and they stay on the couch long after the brides have retired and most of the party has ended. Several elves are returning their furniture to their homes, but no one has tried to kick them off yet. One man brings a large tub full of soapy water and sets it on the ground. He takes their plates and smiles at them when Ariala apologizes.

“You’re Aren’s guests,” he says. “That means you’re our guests, too. Ariala and Solas, right? Word spreads quickly around here.”

“Do you often have elven travelers staying in Aren’s tenement?” Solas wonders. Ariala stands and starts helping the stranger stack dirty dishes into the tub.

“Well, considering we have the only inn that takes in elves, yes, it’s pretty often. So we’ve gotten used to strangers just showing up and exploring the city. It was really busy a few weeks back, after that whole mess with Wycome. We had a lot of refugees from there. Really messy, that.”

A pair of elven men come and cart off the couch. Ariala watches them leave, then turns back to the stranger. “Do you still have anyone from Wycome here?”

The man nods and whistles. Sam, of all people, is the one who comes running. “Yeah, Dad?” he asks. The man stands, drying his hands, and puts one hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam, my son. Sam, these are Aren’s guests, Ariala and Solas. You know where Judith and her brother are staying, right?” When Sam nods, the man smiles and lowers his hand. “Ariala, ma’am, my son can take you to their house, if you like.”

“Thank you,” she says. Solas touches her arm.

“Would you like me to go with you?” She shakes her head, and he steps back, nodding. “I shall see you at the inn, then,” he says. She grants a small, barely-there smile and turns to Sam, who grins at her, looking somewhat jittery.

“Right! Judith’s! Right. Follow me, I’ll get you there in a snap!”

Solas mouths _in a snap_ with a hopelessly confused look, and she can’t help her slight huff of laughter. “I’ll see you soon,” she tells him, then follows Sam into a street that branches away from the square.

He doesn’t say a word to her, but every so often he glances over his shoulder at her, then jerks his head back to stare straight ahead. He does it enough that she starts to glance down every dark alley they pass. No one’s following them. She forces herself to stay calm, though that does not help the apprehension prickling at the back of her neck.

Eventually he leads her to a large, multi-family house. She steps into the courtyard and follows him across, to a ground-level door. The window next to it is drawn shut, but golden light glows from inside. “This is Judith and Elias’s home,” he says. “They’re the only Wycome people living with us now.”

Ariala nods. “Thank you, Sam,” she says. Sam flushes and nods. She steps forward and lifts her hand, ready to knock, when she feels Sam pass behind her and feels his fingers wrap around the coinpurse at her side.

Ah. That had been his game. Makes much more sense. Ariala shakes her head and kicks her leg back, hooking her foot around his ankle and yanking it forward. He curses as he falls flat on his ass in the dirt. Ariala turns and hauls him up by the front of his shirt. He whimpers as she stares at him, one eyebrow arched, and says, “ _Please_ don’t tell my dad.”

Ariala holds her hand out, and he sheepishly returns her coin purse. “I was gonna return it,” he says. “My pickpocket skills aren’t that great. I just—I just wanted to practice. I swear!”

“Uh-huh.”

He swallows. “So… are you not going to tell my dad?”

Ariala rolls her eyes. “How do I get to Aren’s inn from here?”

He babbles directions, and she has him repeat them twice before she is satisfied. “By the way, Sam, I am _very_ disappointed in you,” she tells him. “ _Very. Disappointed_. How old are you, anyway?”

“Fifteen,” he mumbles.

“Fifteen.” Gods help her. She lets him go. “Mythal’enaste, just—just go home.”

He nods, tripping over his feet as he streaks down the street. Ariala sighs and turns back to the door. There’s a soft golden glow in the upper window, so she knows Judith and Elias are still home and still awake.

Her fist hovers above the door.

 _Just knock_ , she tells herself. _Just knock, and introduce yourself, and apologize for getting their entire alienage killed_.

Yeah.

Perfect plan.

Ariala closes her eyes and forces herself to knock, loud and insistent, _one-two-three-four_. After several long moments, during which she debates leaving about a half dozen times, she hears a lock slide free, and the door opens just a crack. A haggard looking man, carrying a toddler in his arms, stares out at her from a crack of orange light.

“My name is Ariala Lavellan,” she says. “I’ve just come back from Wycome. May I speak to Judith?”

“Lavellan?” the man asks. “I thought Wycome killed all its Dalish.”

She cannot hide her wince. “They did. I… I was not with my clan. When it happened. I went there to bury them.”

The open suspicion in the man’s eyes fades a little, and after a moment he nods, opening the door wider. “Come in,” he says. The toddler stares at her with half-lidded eyes, then turns his head to tuck against the man’s neck. His ears are small and pointed and perfect. “My name’s Elias. This is my son, Sorin.”

“He is beautiful,” she says, thinking of Mathalin and his cut ears. She closes the door behind her, glancing around at the sparsely-furnished room. It only has the basics, really: a small, circular wooden dining table, and three wooden chairs. There’s a large wooden box by the hearth, stuffed full of ragged blankets. No rugs, no curtains except the one by the front door, no couches or stacks of firewood for the burning hearth.

“Judith!” Elias calls up the stairs. “Come down, please.” He turns back to her. “Please, miss, have a seat.”

Ariala sits at the dining table. Elias eventually crosses the room and kneels down, putting his sleeping son in the box. He catches her staring, and she watches him flush, looking away. “The alienage’s working on getting a crib for us,” he says. “This works well enough in the meantime.”

She thinks of the empty crib in Wycome’s alienage. Had that been Sorin’s crib, or another child whose name she would never know? Before she can ask, footsteps on the stairs draws her attention, and she sees a woman limping down the stairs. Her coppery hair, cut short and jagged, seems very familiar, but Ariala cannot place the reason why. Ariala’s gaze trails down and she stiffens.

There are burn marks on the woman’s pale skin. Long stretches of pink run from her jaw down her neck, disappearing under the neckline of her dress.

Ariala does not allow herself to look away.

“This is Judith, my sister,” Elias says. “Judith, this is… Miss Lavellan.”

Judith looks up from the next step and goes very still. “Lavellan,” she whispers. “Then you… you know what happened in Wycome?”

“Yes,” Ariala says. “I…” She trails off, throat dry, and swallows. _Be brave_ , she tells herself.

“Our brother got involved with one of your people,” Judith says. “Darrian, his name was. He had a son. Mathalin. Did he—?”

Darrian. That’s why the hair looks so familiar. It had been the exact shade as Darrian’s hair, and Mathalin’s. Ariala’s heart sinks and she shakes her head, unable to bring herself to speak. Tears prick her eyes when she blinks, watching understanding and resignation cross Judith’s face. Elias steps forward, taking Judith by the elbow, helping her sit at the table.

“They burned our alienage,” Elias says. “Judith got caught in the flames.”

“Thank the Maker for healing salves,” Judith says, a bitter sneer twisting her lips. “Didn’t help those the city guard killed for trying to run, though.”

“Judith,” Elias quietly warns, his gaze flashing to Ariala, who shakes her head and leans forward. She has to restrain herself from reaching over and clasping Judith’s hands in hers.

“No. No, I want to hear it. Please.” Her voice is quiet, beseeching.

Judith nods. She listens as Judith describes that night—how they had locked the elves inside their alienage and set their houses aflame, how an angry mob, accompanied by some of the city guard, had beaten down the doors anyway and slaughtered any elf they saw. When people tried to hide in the tenements, they hacked down the ground floor staircases and tossed grenades through the windows, letting the buildings burn. The mob had cut down the vhenadahl and hacked it to pieces, and used it as firewood for the pyres.

Elias gets up to make tea when there is a lull in the conversation, leaving Judith and Ariala alone at the table. Ariala stares blankly at her hands, Judith’s words running through her head. So much destruction. So much death.

_Because of me._

Because she had thought that assassinating the Duke would be the best way to keep her clan safe. She had given no thought to the consequences of her choice and—and now she is alone, the last of Clan Lavellan, and Judith and Elias are alone, too.

She sniffs, eyes watering, and when her tears spill over she wipes them away with the back of her wrist. Elias returns with some tea. He offers her a cup, but she shakes her head. “It was the same with my clan,” she says. “No warning. Just… senseless chaos. Senseless death.”

“I have nightmares, still,” Judith confesses. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about that night.”

“I was told there were other survivors,” Ariala says. “How many others are there?”

“There were hundreds of us in that city,” Elias says, “and only fifteen got out. Including us three.”

Fifteen people. Out of hundreds. All of them, dead because of her. Ariala’s shoulders hunch and she grits her teeth, trying to stave off her tears.

She is intruding on _their_ new home and _she_ had been responsible for their losses. She has no right to impose her own grief upon them.

“I killed a man in Wycome,” she says at last. “He said he helped slaughter my clan. He probably… he probably had a hand in the alienage’s destruction, too. I slit his throat without remorse, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Good,” Judith says, darkly.

“My clan had a tradition of telling stories about the dead,” Ariala says, looking up. She wipes at the wet skin under her eyes and takes a heavy breath. “That way, we preserved what we loved best about them. If you want to tell me the stories of the people you lost, I would like to hear them.”

Judith and Elias exchange a look, then Elias nods, just slightly. Judith’s burnt and scarred hands curve around her mug of tea, and she leans forward. “Our hahren was named Michel,” she says. “He lived in Starkhaven only ten years, spent the rest of his time in Wycome, but he never lost his accent…”

They tell her of friends, of family, of strangers and acquaintances and neighbors. Ariala listens to all of their stories, carefully attentive, but with every name that she learns, the cold, numb weight in the center of her chest increases, growing heavier and heavier.

She doesn’t know how late she stays with them. Only that Sorin eventually whimpers in his makeshift crib, and Elias gets up to attend to him, and Judith looks down at her burnt hands while her fingertips tap against the table. Ariala opens her mouth, then closes it. A sickening anxiety curdles in her gut, making her nauseous, and her mouth goes dry.

_Tell them. You have to tell them._

They deserve to know that she is the reason they have lost everything. They deserve to know why they will live without their family, their friends, their community. Judith deserves to know why her brother is dead, and Elias deserves to know why Sorin will grow up without his mother.

_Tell them. Tell them tell them tell them—_

But her tongue is thick and heavy in her mouth, and her heart is racing, and the world tilts around her when she turns her head. Judith stands, and Ariala does, too, feeling her pulse in the tips of her fingers and in her temples. Her chest is too tight and her breath is starting to come in short, ragged gasps.

“Thank you for visiting,” Judith tells her. “It was good to have someone to talk to. Someone who would know what we went through. And… I’m sorry about what happened to your clan. I never met them, myself, but Darrian said they were good folk.”

Ariala can only nod. Her blood roars in her ears, drowning out almost everything else. Judith’s still talking, but Ariala can’t hear her. Judith opens the door for her and she walks out, stopping just in front of the door. Now is her chance. Her last chance, her only chance, to tell the truth.

_Tell her tell her tell her you fucking coward—_

“We had a saying, in our alienage,” Judith says. Ariala turns to face her. “For funerals, or whenever we lost someone. ‘If my parting has left a void, then fill it with remembered joy.’ It’s kinda similar to what your clan did. Hasn’t done much for me yet, but maybe, one day… well. Who knows.”

Ariala’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. “Judith,” she says. “I—”

She cannot speak. Eventually, she just nods. “Thank you for speaking with me,” she chokes out. Judith smiles, her scarred cheek stretching horribly as she does so, and bids her a gentle goodnight. When the door closes, Ariala is left staring blankly at the grains in the wood.

Her hands are shaking. Her legs feel wooden when she steps away and faces the street. She isn’t even aware when she steps forward and starts walking.

 _You didn’t tell them_ , she thinks to herself. _You had a perfect chance to tell them the truth and you didn’t. You absolute fucking coward. You—you worthless hypocrite._

She had scorned Rainier for running from the truth for so long, for not being honest with her upfront. She’d done the same with Solas. She has always, _always_ thought of herself as someone who was honest, who was brave, who never shied away from difficult conversations.

But that has never been true. Never.

At least Rainier had had the courage to face the consequences of his actions. She had let him: she’d turned away, left Val Royeaux, and let his execution proceed without even a blink. He had killed children, and she’d thought his actions too monstrous for atonement. She remembers looking upon Rainier’s hunched form with nothing but disgust, hissing _you deserve your fate_ , only to see him hang his head lower. Sera hadn’t talked to her for weeks after she found out, not until after the Arbor Wilds.

But how many children had she murdered because of her choices? How many good people were dead because of her arrogance?

 _You worthless piece of shit_ , she thinks, tears pricking her eyes. She stumbles to a stop, suddenly aware of the cold sweat on her skin and her hyperventilating breaths, and has to lean against a wall to keep from collapsing in the street right then and there. A dull ache throbs behind her eyes.

“Get up,” she whispers, even as her hands drift up to knot in her hair. “Get _up_ , damn it, are you so pathetic you can’t even walk?” She grits her teeth together, trying to fight off her sobs, and squeezes her eyes shut. All she can see is Judith’s burns, and the empty cradle back in Wycome’s alienage, and the rotting, broken stump of the vhenadahl.

She doesn’t know how long she stays curled up on a corner, sobbing, but eventually the grief drains from her, like water sluicing off a roof. It leaves her empty and aching, with bitterness nursing cold in her chest. She forces herself to her feet and starts walking, trying to remember the directions Sam had given her.

 _You are so pathetic_ , she thinks, scowling. How many times had she made him repeat the directions? Only for her to forget them? And so easily, too. She’s supposed to be better than this.

_Guess you’re a failure at that, too._

She doesn’t know how long she roams the alienage, alone in the dark. She doesn’t bother to watch the moon sink lower and lower into the sky. Only that she turns a corner and sees another row of identical wood-and-plaster houses, she is almost ready to scream. Or cry. Or both.

“Ariala?”

Solas. Inexplicable tears of relief prick her eyes ( _stop crying, you stupid, pathetic idiot_ ) and she turns around, swallowing. He stands at the mouth of the street, illuminated in moonlight, and when her breath hitches he quickens his pace, closing the distance between in several long strides. His hands hover at her elbows.

“It is four in the morning,” he says, voice gentle. He notes the tear tracks on her face with a frown, a slight furrow between his brows. Carefully, he lifts his hand, and she closes her sore and aching eyes when he wipes away her tears. “Come. Let us get you back to the inn.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she leans against him, savoring his warmth. “Thank you for looking for me,” she murmurs, thickly. “I got lost.”

“What happened?” he asks.

“I met the Wycome survivors,” she tells him, blinking hard. “There—there were two of them. Three. Judith and Elias, brother and sister, and then Elias’s son, Sorin. Sorin was just a child, a toddler. I was…” Her voice breaks, and a fresh wave of tears stings her eyes. She bites her lip, feeling her expression crumble, and can only shake her head. It is several long minutes before she recovers. “I meant to t-tell them that I—that I—”

Solas stops and pulls her into his arms, holding her tightly. She weeps into his tunic, clutching at him, and he holds her through it all. Even when her tears slow, she does not pull away, only turns her head and presses her ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “I was a coward,” she whispers. “I couldn’t tell them that I was the one responsible for—” her voice cracks, “for what they went through.”

She closes her sore eyes. “I was too scared,” she admits, and she _hates_ how small her voice sounds, how broken. She must look so weak to him.

Solas’s exhale rasps, and his arms tighten around her. He says nothing, and she is grateful for his silence. She doesn’t want comfort right now. She just… she just wants to be held. She listens to him take a slow, deep breath, and follows his lead, inhaling and exhaling until the race of her heart doesn’t seem so dizzying.

“Let us return to the inn,” Solas murmurs. “It will be warmer in our room.”

She nods, pulling away from him reluctantly. Solas looks at her, wistful, for a moment, before his expression smoothes over and he guides her to the inn. It is dark inside the tenement courtyard, but the key to their room also allows them into the main building, and from there to their room, which is lit by the glow of a handful of dying candles.

Ariala sits down on her bed with a heavy breath. Solas kneels before her, sitting back on his haunches. He takes her right ankle in hand, and she is too tired to protest as he draws it into his lap. She watches, instead, as he holds her ankle in one hand, and the other drags up her calf to find the loose end of her footwrap. He begins to unwind it in careful silence.

Ariala’s mouth feels dry, tacky. She swallows, licking her lips, fighting a shiver when Solas’s fingers brush against the bare skin of her leg. “I let Rainier die,” she tells him. “Because he lied to me. I told myself it was because of his crimes, but it was because he lied to me.”

“I know,” Solas says. He does not even pause in his work. In silence, he finishes unwrapping her leg. His thumb presses against the red imprints the wraps had left in her skin, and she closes her eyes.

“I thought he had been a coward, not being upfront with me in the beginning. I despised him for that. I—I think some part of me despised you, too. Because you were so reluctant to tell me about whatever great secret you carry, even though I pushed and pushed.”

Solas looks up, his eyes reflecting the light. “I’m a hypocrite,” she whispers, choking up. She looks away, pressing her hand over her mouth and sniffling. When she finally finds the strength, she looks back at him. Solas holds her gaze as his fingers curl against the soft, vulnerable skin of the underside of her knee, and lowers his head to kiss her kneecap. She swallows hard.

“Rainier deserved a second chance,” she tells him. Solas lowers her right leg and turns to her left, beginning the same process of unwinding her footwrap. “I thought I was better than him. I looked down on him when he deserved compassion and, and empathy. Instead I was cruel because I was angry, and now he—he’s dead. He could’ve lived, if I had just… if I had just chosen to give him a second chance.” She sniffs and lifts her hand, wiping at her running nose with the back of her wrist and then wiping her wrist on her leggings.

He kisses her left knee and lowers her foot to the floor, rising to his knees. When he leans toward her, she does the same, pressing their foreheads together. Solas lifts a hand and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and she shivers, her eyes falling shut.

“I’ll try to be kinder to you than I was to Rainer,” she says, a tremble in her voice. “I’m sorry I pushed you so hard. You don’t… whatever you’re holding back, you don’t have to tell me any of it if you don’t want to. It’s not my right to know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Solas swallows and stays silent. Ariala breathes him in, allowing herself some comfort in his warmth. After several long moments, she whispers, “I should’ve told them.”

“Would it have helped them?” Solas wonders. “Would it have helped you?”

“I don’t know. It would’ve—it would’ve been better than being a coward. They deserved to know that I’m the reason they’ve lost everything.” She swallows. “I deserve the noose more than Rainier ever did.”

“ _No_.” Solas seizes her wrists. She starts, instinctively pulling away, but he holds her fast. “Did your hand light the torch?” he asks, a cold fury in his voice that she has only heard a handful of times before. “Did you send the mob to march on your camp, or on the alienage? Tell me, Ariala, were you _there_?”

“No, but—”

“Then do not sacrifice yourself on the altar of this guilt,” he hisses, his hands tightening around her wrists, almost bruising. “Do not consume yourself with thoughts of what you could have or could not have done. You did not control Wycome’s people’s actions.”

“But I ordered their duke’s assassination,” she bites back. “I was too stupid to realize the consequences of that. I thought everything would work out if the Duke was gone, but I only made things _worse_.” She shakes her head. “Stupid.”

“You made a mistake,” he replies, harshly. “That does not make you stupid. That only makes you a person.” He gentles his hold on her, lets go of one wrist to cup her cheek. His other hand leaves to press into the bed beside her thigh. Her expression falls at his touch, even as she turns into his palm.

“Solas,” she whispers. She lifts her free hand and pulls his palm away, leaving it in her lap.

“Should I stand idly by while you destroy yourself?” he asks. “Is that what you ask of me?” He watches her for a moment, then shakes his head. “I will not. I will _not_.”

She blinks at him, stunned. “You think I’m destroying myself?”

He does not answer. Instead, he leans forward and she meets him halfway, resting her forehead against his. Unable to help herself, she lifts her hand and rests it against his cheek, mirroring his earlier gesture. Solas’s eyes squeeze shut, and she feels his jaw work under the press of her fingers. After a moment, she lowers her hand and pulls away, reclining on the bed but still facing him. “I’m tired,” she whispers. “Goodnight, Solas.”

Solas rises to his feet. Indecision flits over his features, before it smoothes into something cool and detached. Her heart aches at the sight of it. Solas folds his arms behind his back and inclines his head. “Goodnight.”

Ariala swallows and turns onto her side, her back to him. It does not take her long to fall asleep, exhausted as she is. When she does, she does not dream of Elvhenan and its beauties, but the slaves. She dreams of men and women, thousands of them, swarming a mountain and emerging mere days later to reveal a towering figure made of stone. She watches slaves work underwater to build magnificent, sprawling cities, watches them get crushed by water when the magic that powers their shielding barrier runs out.

She watches lovers wed in secret, and have children in warded rooms, only for other elves wearing Elgar’nan’s vallaslin rip the babes from their arms. She witnesses bare-faced elves sacrificing slaves on altars, all to power the magical wonders of their cities. She sees elves pushed to their knees and bound in chains, watches them get crowded into burning city squares, watches a makeshift army descend upon a Dalish camp—

Someone takes her hand. She turns and sees her grandmother staring at her, worry creased around her dark brown eyes. Her heart skips. “Mamaela?” she asks, hardly daring to breathe.

“Ariala,” she says, and Ariala thinks, _Comfort_.

Of course. It’s not her actual grandmother.

Comfort squeezes her hand. “Let me take you from this nightmare,” she asks, and Ariala nods. Immediately, the scenery shifts from her camp to a quiet library, abandoned to become a ruin. The ceiling is missing, sunlight streaming from the clear sky to highlight the dust motes that float through the air. The bookshelves are mostly empty, a few bearing a handful of books, none of which are solid when Ariala brushes her fingers over them. Mosaics of ravens and hawks stretch above the bookshelves, their painted gold chipping off to reveal a green underbelly.

“What is this place?” she asks.

“An in-between place,” Comfort replies. She takes a book in hand and opens the cover. Though she stares down at it, as Ariala draws closer, she realizes that there are no actual pages within. Comfort closes the book, treating it as carefully as glass, and returns it to her place. “This was Wisdom’s favorite domain, once.”

Ariala looks around, slowly turning in a circle. Then she turns back to Comfort. “Is there anywhere else you can take me?” she asks. “Somewhere… quiet?”

Quiet. This whole place is silent, save for the sound of her voice. Still, Comfort nods, and the scene shifts once again, becoming a blossoming meadow. Comfort still bears her grandmother’s face, but her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she smells like lavender. Something tight and clenched inside her chest relaxes, and she allows Comfort to draw her down, to rest her head in her grandmother’s lap. Her grandmother undoes her bun and begins to comb out her hair with her fingertips.

She stays with her grandmother in the meadow until the waking world pulls her from her dream.

— ✦ —

She wakes with the dawn, with exhaustion lingering in her bones. Solas is gone, though his bedroll is packed—as is hers, because she hadn’t bothered to change into sleepwear. She groans, rolling over, and allows herself a few more minutes’ rest before she remembers that Tanner will be waiting for them.

With her horse. _Syl_.

Oh, she’s missed him.

She forces herself to sit up, but only after several rounds of mental chastisement. With fingers stiff from the morning cold, a cold that smells of autumn’s advent and the chill of the Emprise, she changes into a fresh set of clothes and stuffs the rest into her rolled-up bedroll. She passes a dusty and tarnished mirror, and stops at seeing the rat’s nest that is her hair. After a brief debate, she decides she doesn’t have the energy to brush it, so she gathers it up in a bun at the back of her head and ties it with the leather strap around her wrist. Solas’s gear, at least, is still in their room, so she takes their key and ventures downstairs.

Aren and Solas are talking. They sit on wooden chairs set before the fireplace, and Aren’s hands are moving as he relays a story. At his feet dozes a mabari she hasn’t seen before, its muzzle gray and its coat threaded through with white. Solas’s hands are cupped around a mug of tea, not a drop of which has been drunk, and he is listening to Aren’s every word. Behind them both, standing in front of one of the windows, is a cloaked figure. Another guest?

The figure turns, and she sees a pin attached to their breast, shaped like the eye of the Inquisition. Tanner, then. When he sees her, he lifts his hands and pushes the hood back. “Your Worship,” he says, greeting her with an easy smile and a slight bow. “Welcome back.”

Solas turns and, upon spotting her, rises to his feet. Behind him, Aren squints at her. “‘Your Worship’?” he repeats. “You’re someone important, eh? Gotta be, to get this shem bowing to you.”

Tanner rolls his eyes. “This woman before you is Her Worship Lady Inquisitor Ariala of the Clan Lavellan, Sealer of the Breach, Chosen to be Herald of Our Lady Andraste—”

“Okay, Tanner, that’s enough,” she says, forcing a smile. Aren is watching her, utterly unimpressed, and she wishes she could thank him for it. “Thank you. Where’s my horse?”

“Waiting outside the city,” Tanner says. “I thought it best to come find you myself, I did, after the report Yarrow sent me. Apparently she waited for you at a rendezvous point for, uh, several hours. Most of the day, really.”

Ariala has to pause a moment to remember who Yarrow is before she realizes he’s talking about Myra. Which means Myra told Tanner that it had taken her and Solas all day to reach a meeting point when they were supposed to be there at dawn. Which means Leliana, at the very least, _also_ knows. Great.

“That’s fair,” she allows. “Solas, are you ready to go?”

Solas glances wistfully at Aren. “I enjoyed your stories,” he says. “I am sorry I won’t get to hear more.”

Aren waves a hand. “Oh, it’s fine, it’s fine. Haven’t had someone so interested in me since the Carta came knockin’ twenty years back. You were a good listener, boy.” Ariala raises an eyebrow. Aren sees, and grins, his bad eye almost disappearing under several folds of skin. “Once you get to my age, you can call everyone that. Perks of getting old.”

Solas grants her a rueful smile. He returns the untouched mug of tea to the tray, then stands. “Thank you, Aren. For your hospitality and for your stories.”

Aren doesn’t try to stand. Instead, he just nods. “Now, my great-grandchildren will be here in about ten minutes,” he warns. “So if you don’t want to get swarmed by young’uns, and if the shem wants to get out as unseen as he thinks he came in, you’d better head out. Don’t forget the weapons.”

Tanner produces two hunting knives from under his cloak. “I already visited the barracks for you,” he tells them. Ariala takes them and hands one to Solas, then gives him the key to their room.

“A moment,” Solas says, turning and going up the stairs, leaving the three of them alone. Aren offers her Solas’s tea, still warm, and she sips at it. Green tea. Perfect. It’s lukewarm enough that she can tip her head back and down all of it like it’s a dwarven ale at Cabot’s.

Tanner’s eyes are wide as she sets it back down on the tray and wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist. _How’s that for prim and proper Herald_ , she thinks. Aren laughs, which turns into a fit of hacking coughs, rattling in his chest. When it passes, he reaches for his tea and takes several large gulps. He lowers his mug afterward and exhales a ragged breath, sitting back in his chair. “So you’re the Herald of Andraste, eh?” he asks. “And a Dalish elf. Either this shem here’s mad or the Maker is having a grand old laugh at all of us.”

Tanner gapes. “I’m not _mad_ , it’s not my fault none of you seem to know who the Inquisitor is—”

Ariala lifts her hand and offers a hollow smile. “I was sent by Our Lady to remind humans of her promise to my People,” she says. That’s what Captain Abram had said, hadn’t he? Seems right. “Her promise of the Dales as my people’s homeland.”

The mabari opens its eyes, its gaze flicking to her before returning to a spot on the wall before it. Aren hums in thought, lifting his mug of tea to his lips again and taking a long drink. “And does this land have room for _my_ people, Your Worship?” he asks. The title seems mocking, coming from Aren’s lips. But despite the weathered lines in his face, and his thinning hair, his good eye is bright and calculating as he watches her above the rim of his mug of tea.

“My people are _the_ People,” she tells him. “So, yes, that includes city elves, if that’s what you were asking. But I’ll have to convince the Orlesians to hand over the land, first. In the name of Andraste, of course. Naturally.”

Aren cackles. “Good luck,” he says, grinning. “That lot’s nothin’ but stubborn bastards, almost as stubborn as us Fereldens, aye.”

That’s right. He’s probably old enough to remember the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden. Ariala moves to sit in the chair, curious to hear his stories—and maybe his opinions on Queen Anora—but Solas returns with their gear before she can.

It is a relatively short walk to the stables that host travelers’ horses outside the city. Tanner takes the lead, weaving in between pedestrians as easily as a shadow. While he is guiding them out of Amaranthine, Solas joins her side.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

“Fine,” she says. _Empty_ , she thinks. “I see you were getting along swimmingly with our host.”

“He is ninety-two,” Solas says. Ariala whistles, eyebrows climbing high, and Solas blinks. “I take it that is impressive, then?”

“Solas, the oldest person I’ve ever known was sixty-eight.” That had been Terisin, before the winter cold had taken him in his sleep. There were worse ways to go. She looks at Solas out of the corner of her eye. “Let me guess—elvhen weren’t considered adults until they were one thousand years old?”

Solas rolls his eyes. “Of course not. We stopped growing at twenty-five, so that was considered the point that one reached adulthood.” He pauses. “Though I must admit, one was not treated as such until perhaps their two hundredth birthday, give or take fifty years.”

She stares at him. “What did you all  _do_ with all that time?”

Solas’s smile is a little rueful. She looks forward just in time to avoid getting trampled by a laborer who can’t see past his overflowing basket of laundry, then weaves back through the crowd. They’re almost at the gates of the city, now. “I will tell you on our journey back to Skyhold,” he tells her in a low murmur.

When they finally reach the stables, she sees Syl and Eirlana, tied to a post and grazing together, already saddled and ready for a voyage. She swallows hard and picks up her pace, which makes Syl look up, his ears swivelling forward. After a moment, he kicks at the ground, whinnying, and Ariala smiles, breaking into a sprint and running past Tanner. Once she reaches him, she shrugs off her bow and gear, reaching up to grab hold of his bridle. Syl pulls away, lipping at her gloved hands, and she laughs.

“Sorry, boy,” she says. She rubs his neck in consolation, resting her other palm on his muzzle and kissing the velvety skin above it. “No sugar cubes today. When we get back to Skyhold, you’ll get as many as you want, okay?”

Eirlana ambles over, whickering in greeting. She reaches out and strokes Eirlana’s nose, down the length of the white stripe between her eyes. But then Solas is there, and Eirlana’s attention is diverted away from her.

Tanner helps them get everything packed and ready on their horses. Once they’re both on their respective mounts, Tanner pats Eirlana’s flank and looks up at her. “I’ll send a report to Lady Nightingale right away, Your Worship,” he tells her. “It’s a three-week journey to Skyhold from Amaranthine. Safe travels.”

“And to you,” she answers, with a small smile. He nods and steps away from their horses. Ariala looks at Solas, then, with a click of her tongue, urges Syl forward. Solas does the same. Soon, Amaranthine is behind them, and the wide open road stretches before them.

— ✦ —

She spends the three-week journey discussing Elvhenan, and her plans for the future after Corypheus, with Solas. He tells her of architectural and magical wonders, of beautiful gardens and carefully sculpted landscapes, of works of art and sculpture and music and extinct trades that took five hundred years to perfect. He tells her of spirits flitting through this world as easily as a breeze, spirits who posed no danger to elves because they had no need to take on bodies in order to experience the waking world.

That’s how he refers to this world, she notes. Always ‘waking,’ never ‘reality.’

“You would have worn the stars themselves as jewelry,” he tells her, once, with a look in his eyes that makes her think of Halamshiral, when he had pulled her into a shadowed alcove, smelling of wine, and whispered _you are the most beautiful woman in this city_. Ariala had looked away, acutely aware of the flush on her cheeks, and had changed the subject.

As eager as he is to discuss the beauties of Elvhenan, he doesn’t shy from its ugliness, either. He tells her of Falon’Din sacrificing thousands, elves and spirits, to power his gristly network of shifting tombs full of powerful artifacts. He tells her of Andruil venturing into the Void and emerging from it a madwoman who took an unnatural joy in killing living creatures. He tells her of slaves needlessly sacrificed to build wonders that did nothing but cater to the false gods’ vanity.

“But you owned slaves,” she says, and it is not a question.

Solas takes a breath and looks her in the eye. “I did,” he says. “Many noble elvhen only saw their slaves as property, as commodities to be bought and sold and used, and not as people. I was one of them, for a time, and I am not proud of that. I can only say that eventually I saw the evil in my ways, and corrected my course accordingly.”

Ariala purses her lips and turns away.

Solas purchases a journal for her when they pass through a village, one week into their journey back to Skyhold, and Ariala carefully begins to write it all down, despite her atrocious penmanship.

She collects every story that Solas tells—stories about the gods, yes, but also recipes and descriptions of complex dances. At night, she writes down the Dalish legends, and the stories of the places she’d explored—Dirthamen’s temple and the Din’an Hanin and the Cradle of Sulevin. The Temple of Mythal gets three pages alone, and that is only based off of her memory.

It’s good. It distracts her from the emptiness in her chest, and the fatigue that makes her want to sleep for days on end, and the guilt of being too cowardly to tell Judith and Elias the truth of her identity.

But that distraction comes crashing down halfway into the second week, when she wakes and realizes she cannot bring herself to get up from the bedroll. She is perfectly awake, perfectly ready to resume their journey, but when she tells her body to move, to do _something_ , she lays still and stares at the tent canvas across from her. Her chest is numb, hollow, and she feels as if she is buried under a mountain of earth, unable to claw her way back to the surface, to the sunlight.

 _Come on_ , she thinks. _Get up_.

She doesn’t. She tightens the blankets around her and falls back asleep.

When she wakes up again, Solas is sitting beside her, sketching, and the tent flap is orange with the sunset. She stirs, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder, and he offers a small, somber smile.

“Hello,” he says, quietly.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks. She doesn’t elaborate why she’s apologizing, but her mind supplies them anyway, screaming into the silence of her empty heart: _I’m sorry I’m so lazy. I’m sorry I’m so pathetic. I’m sorry I’m worthless._

“We have been riding for two weeks,” Solas says. “I myself am grateful for a reprieve today.”

Tears prick her eyes, and she rolls back onto her side, staring at the canvas. She listens to the sound of Solas’s sketching, and then he touches her shoulder. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks. “Have you eaten yet today?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “I just… I don’t know. Stay with me? If you want.”

“Of course,” Solas says.

The fog lingers for days. Solas stays with her the whole time, bringing her food that she barely touches.

She wishes she had the courage to tell him how much that means to her.

— ✦ —

The Frostback Mountains come into view on the eighteenth day. They still have another week of riding, but it does not keep tears from stinging her eyes.

Skyhold.

They’re so close.

A fierce pang of longing runs through her, and she swallows hard before looking at Solas. “It will be least another week of riding,” he says, offering a small smile, “but that is better than before.”

Ariala nods, urging Syl forward into a canter, and tries to think of something to keep her mind off of Skyhold. “So I’ve been thinking,” she finally says, “about ways to help the People. After Corypheus.”

“Oh?” he asks.

“I’m going to try and get the Dales back.”

His eyebrows raise. “Oh?” he says again, much more intently than before. “And how will you accomplish that?”

“Captain Abram gave me the idea,” she says. Solas starts laughing. “Shut up, I think it might work. Anyway, he was talking nonsense about how Andraste chose me to shame the humans for going back on their promise to give the elves to the People. Which—stop _laughing, Solas_ —which, it may be a good idea! _I_ have a direct influence on who will become the next Divine. I don’t think Vivienne would be interested—maybe Leliana? I’ll have to talk to her. Anyway. The Warden was an elf, right? I’m an elf. It surely must be a sign of the Maker that he’s sick of the way humans have been treating us. How better to make amends than to restore our ancestral homeland? And if the Divine is on my side…”

“Then the political pressure mounts on Orlais,” Solas says, “and your chance of success grows. It might work, especially because Celene owes you both her life and her crown. But you will have to pretend to truly believe you are the Herald of Andraste.” He gives her a pointed look.

“Hey, I’ve never outright denied it, okay?”

“But you have yet to explicitly confirm it,” he says.

“Then I’ll fake a conversion. No big deal.”

“Ah. I see. Then how will you get the Dalish to join this new nation of yours?”

“Solas. _I_ am Dalish.”

“Yes.” He smiles. “A Dalish who has just, for all intents and purposes, publicly converted to Andrastianism and turned her back on her people’s gods. Would your people follow you still?”

“ _Damn it_.”

Solas starts laughing, _again_ , and she scowls at him, clicking her tongue and urging Syl into a gallop, leaving him in the dust behind her. His curse behind her, almost swallowed by the sudden rush of wind, makes it completely worth it.

— ✦ —

When they finally reach the mountain path, less than an hour’s ride from Skyhold, Ariala has to resist the impulse to urge Syl into a gallop. The paths are treacherous for even the hardiest horses and the most accomplished riders. One never knows when a blizzard will hit, or if there will be an avalanche, not to mention the bandits that they regularly have to clear out.

So instead, she keeps Syl at a steady walk, with Solas by her side, even as her heart pounds under her breast.

Finally, _finally_ , Skyhold’s silhouette emerges from around the curve of the mountain, black against the setting sun, so achingly familiar it makes her chest hurt. The portcullis is still open, and two large Inquisition banners hang above it, fluttering in the cold wind. Ariala takes a breath, gathering the reins in her hand, making Syl stop, kicking at the ground. She glances at Solas, who has halted Eirlana beside her, and catches his eye. He is smiling.

“It has been waiting for you,” he says. “Can you feel it?”

Ariala looks forward, narrowing her eyes as she regards the fortress’s silhouette. After a moment, a slow smile spreads across her face, and sheva laughs. With a click of her tongue, she urges Syl into a gallop. She rides through the gates and guides Syl into a series of circles, carefully slowing him down into a trot. It does not take the Inquisition’s soldiers long to realize who she is: cheers and cries of “Inquisitor!” and “Your Worship!” start to rise up, and she notices people beginning to leave the castle. Among them are her advisors, who cluster together on the landing, waiting for her.

Solas joins her side and helps her dismount. “I will stable Syl,” he says. “I imagine your advisors wish to debrief you.”

Ariala squeezes his arm and steps away, inhaling the fresh air. It is autumn at Skyhold—the summer trees, allowed to bloom due to Skyhold’s magical temperature protections, are all a beautiful mix of golds and purples and oranges and reds. Like a sunset. A breeze ruffles her hair, and two golden leaves are caught on the breeze, sent spinning towards her. She catches one, but the other lands in her hair.

She doesn’t bother to take it out.

She watches Solas lead Syl and Eirlana to the stables, then takes a breath and walks toward the stairs to the castle. When she finally reaches her advisors, she smiles. Josephine curtseys, and Cullen salutes her, but Leliana only watches her with a slight smile. “Welcome back, Inquisitor,” she says.

“I see Corypheus did not attack Skyhold while I was gone,” she says, with a look at Cullen.

Cullen looks contrite. He rubs the back of his neck. “Ah—no, Inquisitor.”

“Did his dragon attack Skyhold in my absence?”

“No, Inquisitor,” says Josephine, who is poorly hiding her mirth. Leliana’s smile has widened, just a little bit.

“Did _anyone_ attack Skyhold, ever?”

Leliana shakes her head. “All is well, so far.”

Ariala hmphs. “Interesting how that happens.”

“I will make certain your schedule is clear tomorrow, Inquisitor,” says Josephine, turning to walk up the stairs. Ariala joins her side. “You are free to spend your time how you see fit. I shall have food sent up to your room at once. When you are ready, Lady Morrigan wishes to speak to you regarding the matter of Corypheus’s dragon, and we have received interesting reports from the Frostback Basin and the Storm Coast…”

Ariala nods, glancing over her shoulder, and sees Dorian and Bull leaving the tavern. “Josephine,” she says, and Josephine turns back, quill held high and eyebrow arched. Ariala faces her and touches her arm. “I’m sorry, but I need to catch up with some friends first.”

Josephine follows her gaze and smiles, ducking her head. “Of course. If you should need anything, Inquisitor, I am ever at your service.”

Ariala smiles at her, then turns and rushes down the steps, nearly tripping on them in her haste. The gathering crowd parts to make way for her, clearing a path to Dorian and Bull. She takes a deep breath and pushes herself to run harder, faster, streaking down the hill toward the tavern. Bull is the first to notice her; he nudges Dorian and gestures toward her, a wide smile on his face.

Dorian’s face lights up when he sees her, and suddenly there are tears stinging her eyes, almost blinding her. She slows down enough that she doesn’t barrel into him and knock her over, but that doesn’t stop Dorian from sweeping her up into his arms and pulling her close, arms tight around her back. She throws her arms around his shoulders, pressing her face into his shoulder and holding on as tightly as she can. Dorian’s arms tighten around her, and for an instant she is absurdly grateful that he doesn’t seem to want to let go of her just yet.

“I’m so sorry, amica,” he mutters. “I only heard after you’d left. Though, I am a bit put out you chose _Solas_ over me.” He lowers her to the ground, gently pulling away, his eyes searching her face. “You know I would’ve gone with you if you’d asked, yes? Without question.”

Ariala laughs, wetly. “Even if I’d had to go the Fallow Mire?”

Dorian grimaces. “Well, no, probably not, you’ve got me there.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye,” she tells him, voice cracking. Dorian exhales, shaking his head slightly before pulling her back into another hug. This time, it is a long while before she lets him go.

She turns to Bull. He smiles down at her, then throws his arms wide open. “No hug for me?”

Ariala laughs and reaches for him, jumping up. He catches her and pulls her into a fierce hug that cracks her back and leaves her loose and relaxed. He’s warm, despite the autumn air, and she sighs, tightening her arms around his neck. She feels his hands roam her back and curve around her sides, pressing against the spaces between her ribs. But before she can comment, or make excuses, Iron Bull grunts as he swings her, just a little, then sets her back on her feet.

“Welcome home, boss,” Iron Bull says. She blinks away the unexpected tears in her eyes and smiles.

She is home.

She is _home_.


	6. tarasyl'an tel'as i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> split this chap into two bc im still working on the second half and tbh i figured yall wouldn't want another 30k chapter!
> 
> ALSO, FANART YALL! [LOOK!](http://cedarmoons.tumblr.com/post/174645973177/so-again-i-have-the-best-friends-ever) [LOOK!](http://cedarmoons.tumblr.com/post/174324467237/soooo-eveninglottie-continues-to-prove-herself) [LOOK!](http://cedarmoons.tumblr.com/post/174201720532/empresstress13-cedarmoons-has-made-me-cry-my) [LOOK!](http://cedarmoons.tumblr.com/post/172587310972/i-dont-care-about-what-weve-lost-i-care-about)  
> (fanart is the #1 way to get me to update. just saying.)
> 
> thank you for your patience—once again i've had to extend this dumb fic, but the end is in sight! also, once again, ariala is Not Kind to herself!

She had thought things would be easier, once she got to Skyhold. She had thought the return to routine would help her live on, as she had promised. She’d thought she could spend time with her friends, with her advisors, and soon enough she would be back on her feet.

Except.

Except she has not left her room for the past three days.

Except she barely touches the food that her handmaid Alys brings.

Except she hardly leaves her bed, and spends her time either sleeping or, when awake, staring at the ceiling or the wall or the ray of sunlight draped across the floor, wondering why her body won’t move despite her mind screaming at it to do _something_.

The old, unwelcome fatigue sits heavy on her chest, leaving her curled up in her bed, staring at the sunlight that spills across the floor. Sometimes she thinks of her clan, of her grandmother, of her cowardice in Amaranthine; but mostly, she doesn’t think of anything at all.

She wakes from another nap to the bells ringing in the hour. She counts five bells and groans, rolling onto her stomach and taking a deep breath, though it does nothing to shake the fatigue from her. She manages to open her eyes—something so simple should not feel like a monumental effort—and look out the windows. The sky has darkened outside, a line of gold and red separating the mountains from the evening indigo. Which means she had slept through at least one extra bell. Which means it is, at least, six in the evening.

Ariala sighs and lies back down, pulling the covers tighter around herself. _Another day wasted_ , she thinks, hating the sinking feeling in her stomach. _Way to go, Ariala, you useless idiot._

She inhales slowly, closing her eyes when she smells food. After several long minutes, she rolls onto her other side, facing the staircase. Sure enough, Alys had left her another tray full of food next to the couch pushed up against the half-wall that serves as a staircase railing. Steam still curls from the meat and vegetables, garnished with various herbs. Ariala lifts her head, looking toward her desk.

Josephine had left her a pile of paperwork, and though she has worked on it late at night, the only time her energy seems to catch up with her, it seems that the pile is only growing no matter what she does. There’s also a package from Jader—probably another gift from some minor Orlesian noble, still trying to curry favor in the aftermath of Halamshiral. Simply looking at it exhausts her.

She rolls back onto her stomach and closes her eyes. She does not sleep, only rests, until the seventh hour of the evening is rung in by the little chapel bells. Her grumbling stomach forces her out of bed, but the food tastes like sawdust, and she does not eat much of it. When she has eaten all she can stomach, she leaves the leftovers on the tray and forces herself to go to the desk. She grabs a finger’s width of papers from the desk and returns to her bed, scattering the papers over the sheets and crossing her legs. Most of them are reports, none of which need her signature.

There is still no sign of Corypheus, not since his defeat in the Wilds. With Samson in custody and Calpernia turned against him, he has only his dragon and his army of red lyrium-addicted Templar drones.

 _I recommend we begin preparing for a siege_ , Cullen’s handwriting adds at the bottom of one report. _It won’t help against the dragon, but against his army—we may stand a chance. We’re well positioned, and your repairs to the castle have helped immensely. It is only a matter of time before he returns for one last confrontation._

It’s only a matter of time before he returns.

She thinks of her too-thin body, her lost muscle mass and lost strength, and frowns. She scribbles a quick note of assent and sets it to the side, to be delivered to Cullen. The next are letters from Josephine, which are themselves summaries of letters sent to her by important people, mostly Orlesians. Ugh. Next.

She is not even halfway through her pathetically small stack of papers before her eyelids begin to feel heavy again. She sighs, slumping forward, resting her head in her hands. She can feel the grease and dandruff in her hair, the grit on her teeth from two days of going without a cleaning. When she scratches at her nose and pulls her hand away, oil and dead skin shines under her thumbnail.

Disgusting.

 _You have to get up_ , she tells herself, and in her mind it sounds like a scream. _Clean your teeth, at least. Do something, for once, gods damn it._

She doesn’t move. She swallows, hard, and lies back down, the papers in front of her forgotten as she stares up at the ceiling, painted by Solas at her request to resemble the star-studded night sky. She traces the outlines of various constellations—the Mother Tree, and Fenrir—while a sickening heaviness sits square in the center of her chest.

What is _wrong_ with her? She had been fine, a few weeks ago. But now she is too lazy to even take basic care of herself, or work, or—or—

She squeezes her eyes shut, rolling over and pressing her face into her pillow, releasing a sound that might’ve been a scream if given greater voice. After a minute, she collapses back on the bed, twisting around until she’s on her side, staring at the wall.

She doesn’t know how long it takes her to fall back asleep.

The Well leaves her dreams in peace.

— ✦ —

Ariala is startled awake by the sound of the door bursting open. The sound of metal-toed boots clank against the stone, and as Ariala sits up, heart racing with a burst of adrenaline, she recognizes Cassandra’s gait. But it does not relax her, as she’d thought it would; Cassandra is one of her closest friends of the Inner Circle, and right now she sounds in a rush. What was happening?

Cassandra’s figure rises from the stairwell and she rounds the railing, eyes narrowed as she scowls at Ariala. Even in the face of her irritation, Ariala’s body relaxes back into the bed, and she pulls the covers tighter around her, eyes slipping shut.

“Get up,” says Cassandra, her tone harsh and irritated. Ariala opens her eyes, briefly, and squints at her for a moment. Then she closes her eyes again and rolls over, back to Cassandra. She hears Cassandra make a noise of disgust, and then hears her boots on the floor. Suddenly, gloved hands fist in her duvet and rip it away, tossing it to the floor. Ariala yelps and shrinks into herself, legs curling up toward her body and shoulders hunching at the sudden chill.

“You will get dressed, and we will go into the courtyard, to spar and take your mind off of…” Cassandra hesitates. Ariala lifts her head, glaring at her through narrowed eyes.

“Your melancholy,” she finally finishes.

“No,” Ariala says, hugging the pillow tighter to her, wishing she was a mage. She could heat herself with magic, instead of mourning Cassandra’s unlawful theft of her blankets. “I’m not interested—”

“You _need_ to get out of bed! By the Maker, Ariala, since your return you have done nothing but—sleep and stay in your room! None of us have seen you for three days!”

Ariala shrinks away, shame blooming inside her chest, face flushing. She turns away, refusing to meet Cassandra’s eyes, and flops onto her stomach, burying her face into her pillow. Cassandra makes another disgusted noise. “You are not a child, so do not act like one.”

“I’m not acting like a child,” Ariala mutters, voice muffled by her pillow.

“Yes, you are! Sulking in your rooms, speaking to no one, hardly eating—”

She lifts her head, her shame sparking into irritation. “Well, I’m sorry I’m still grieving the murder of my _entire_ clan, Cassandra!”

Cassandra falters, then squares her jaw, the look she gets when she refuses to back down from a challenge. Ariala feels her own anger growing, forming hot in the pit of her stomach, rising in her throat. Cassandra continues. “We all feel for you, Ariala, but this—petulant moping—”  

“Leave me alone!” she shouts, sitting up and chucking her pillow at her. Cassandra bats it away, irritated, and Ariala thinks _how is that for petulant, Cassandra?_

“I will _not_ —”

“Cass,” says Bull, cutting off their argument at once. Both Ariala and Cassandra turn to the top of the stairs, where Bull is standing, arms crossed as he regards the both of them with a carefully blank expression. Ariala draws her knees up to her chest and clasps her hands around her legs, her shame solidifying into a stone at the pit of her stomach.

Cassandra sighs. “Iron Bull. I was just…”

“Yeah. I know. Let me talk to her,” says Bull. Cassandra looks at Ariala over her shoulder, but Ariala refuses to meet her gaze, staring resolutely instead at the exposed bedsheets tangled around her legs. Cassandra sighs, and Ariala listens to her heavy footsteps on the stairs as she leaves.

Once she’s gone, Bull bends down, picking up Ariala’s pillow and duvet. He hands her the pillow and lifts the end of the mattress as if she isn’t even on it, tucking the ends of the duvet back into their proper place. He hands the other end to her, and she draws it up toward her chin, wrapping it around her front, shielding her from his eye.

“Mind if I stay a bit?” he asks. Ariala shakes her head. Still expressionless, Bull turns around and walks to the hearth, picking up the chaise that rests in front of it. He carries it over to her bedside and settles in, lounging easily, comfortably, though it is still comically small for him. Ariala stares at him, cheeks still burning, waiting for him to admonish her for her laziness as Cassandra had, or perhaps for not coming out of her room for the past three days.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time; long enough that it grows uncomfortable, that his gaze feels more like a brand than anything else, that she has to look down at her lap to avoid the weight of it.

“That was shitty of her,” he finally says.

Ariala looks up, taken aback. That was—not what she had been expecting. “But she’s right,” she admits.

Bull hums, a low, rumbling sound from deep in his chest. She has heard him make that sound a thousand times before, and she still doesn’t know if it means he’s pleased or not. Instead of replying, he asks, “Have you eaten yet?”

“No. I just woke up, though, so… I can wait a little longer.”

“Right. That’s fine, but you should know, it’s one in the afternoon,” he says.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, boss. Not your fault. I’m gonna get some lunch, and we can split it, how about that?” He waits for her to nod, then leans over, ringing a bell that will summon Alys to the room. Ariala hardly ever uses it, except to get a bath drawn; she’s been mostly independent as the Inquisitor.

Until now, at least.

“Any preferences?” Bull asks, drawing her from her thoughts. “The cook’s been on an Antivan binge lately. Got some spiced chicken the other day. Really good.”

“I don’t care,” she says, shaking her head, and he nods, falling silent. She waits, but he doesn’t scold her as Cassandra had, or ask why she’s been avoiding everyone for the past three days. She watches him, but his expression remains blank and calm. There is no evidence of disgust, whether hidden or open, or anger, or even disappointment. Finally, she can’t take it anymore.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks. Before Bull can answer, the door opens, and a red-faced Alys rushes up the stairs.

“You called, Your Worship?”

Bull smiles at her, and she relaxes at once, one hand lifting to pat down her frazzled hair. He asks for an “Antivan chicken, the cook’ll know what I’m talking about,” and Alys nods.

“Anything else, Your Worship?”

Ariala shakes her head. “Thank you, Alys,” she says. Alys offers a tentative smile and disappears back downstairs. Once she is gone, Ariala waits for some kind of admonishment, but it never comes. Again she says, “Bull. What are you waiting for?”

“The food,” Bull says. She squints at him. He’s still watching her, expression calm and unreadable, and her brow furrows.

“Aren’t you going to… I don’t know, yell at me?”

“Nah,” says Bull. “Thought you’d want to talk.”

“Talk,” she repeats, flatly. He nods, still not looking away from her, and she shifts onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “I… I don’t know. Not really?”

He nods again. “Mind if I talk, then?”

He waits until she shakes her head before he speaks. “Have I told you about asala-taar?”

“No.”

He grunts, adjusting his weight on the chaise, getting more comfortable. “Means ‘soul sickness’ in Qunlat. It’s a sickness of the mind of soldiers. Especially common in Seheron. Men would wake screaming from nightmares, or hallucinate past battles, things like that. Real nasty.”

“But that’s just one type of asala-taar. Sometimes, there would be soldiers who just—shut down. We’d have men trying to kill themselves, guys who woke up crying for no reason. But the worst were the soldiers who just stopped caring. They forgot to eat. They disconnected from their team, from their emotions, from themselves.”

Ariala slowly lifts her head, staring at Bull. He meets her gaze and shrugs, a lift of one massive shoulder.

“They lost interest in things they used to love, and weren’t able to concentrate very well. They’d sleep all day, then stay up all night because they couldn’t fall asleep. Repeat that for days, weeks, months even. Things like that.” He looks at the wall, watching something she can’t see, and rubs at his jaw. “Shit. I still can’t decide which type was worse.”

Ariala stares, speechless. Bull looks back at her, his slouch casual but his lone eye sharp. “You think I have that?” she asks finally. “Asala-taar?” The Qunlat word sounds foreign on her tongue.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Which is why I wanted to know if you’d like to talk. Sometimes just letting it all out helps, but not always. So.” He shrugs again. “If you want to rant, or talk about how shitty humans are, or how crappy the trip was with Solas, go ahead.”

Ariala huffs a laugh despite herself, though her humor fades almost immediately afterward. “It wasn’t _that_ bad,” she says. “He was—he was fine. He was kind to me. Kinder than I deserved, really.”

“Boss, first thing’s first, you have gotta stop with that self-deprecation. I’m not here for that. Got it?” Ariala blinks, but nods, and Bull nods back at her, satisfied. “Great. Well, I’m glad it worked out for you two. Are you two still good?”

“Yes? I don’t know. We were fine when we got back to Skyhold.”

“Okay. Cool.” He sits back in the stool, looking away for the first time since their conversation started, but it is a quick glance, cursory. He looks back at her a moment later. She fidgets, uncomfortable with his attention on her, and averts her gaze back to the ceiling. She waits, but he doesn’t speak, and the silence extends all the way up until her handmaid brings back the food.

Bull smiles when Alys arrives, the tray bearing chicken drenched in red-orange sauce, accompanied by warm rolls and pasta. Alys curtsies after depositing it on the end table and quickly takes her leave, though not without a flirtatious smile in his direction. Ariala stares at Bull until he looks up from his food.

“Oh, right, we’re splitting,” he says, and carefully begins loading exactly half the pasta, bread, and chicken onto an extra plate, tucked under his own. Ariala scoffs.

“So, you and Alys?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

“We’ve had some good times,” Iron Bull says, shrugging a massive shoulder. “Mind if I sit with you, boss?”

She obligingly scoots over, acutely aware of her unwashed, wrinkled sheets and how she must stink to his heightened sense of smell. But the Bull only sits on her overly rich duvet, the bed groaning under his weight, and hands her a plate and a fork. When he takes a bite of his chicken, he groans. “Ah, yeah, _that’s_ the good stuff. Have some, boss! Cook really outdid himself this time.”

She rolls her eyes but obligingly digs the side of her fork into the chicken, cutting off a small piece and eating it. The sauce isn’t tomato-based, but something else entirely—and it sets her mouth on fire. Eyes watering, she gasps for air, sitting up straight. Iron Bull laughs and hands her a tin already full of water. She gulps it down but that barely does anything.

“Eat the bread, it helps,” he says, and she does, watering eyes narrowing at him as he grins, utterly unapologetic.

“They’re Qunari spices, right from Par Vollen. I don’t know how Varric got them, but he did, and I now owe him even more money. First I said the Qunari wouldn’t sell powdered cocoa to outsiders. It’s a great state secret, right up there with gaatlock. The rest of you have to drink that nasty bitter stuff instead. Then I said he couldn’t get these spices.” Bull shakes his head and grins at her. “What’d’ya think?”

“It’s awful,” she gasps, eyes watering. She cuts off another piece of chicken, much larger than the last. Bull laughs, his whole torso shaking with his amusement, and moves his fork to scrape off the sauce from the chicken, staining the pasta orange-red. She shifts and leans against him instead of her pillow, and he moves accordingly so she rests against his chest and not his arm.

She hasn’t been so hungry in days. She eats all of her pasta and her chicken, scraping every bit of meat from the bones until they’re picked clean. Bull offers her his own pasta and she refuses twice before he finally convinces her to drag the pile of noodles onto her own plate.

“No offense, boss, but you’re a fucking skeleton,” he says.

“Oh. Really?” she asks, swallowing hard.

“Yeah. I can feel your scapulas.”

“My what?”

“Shoulder blades. It’s like I’m cuddling a stick.” He pushes her forward, just slightly, and touches the corners of her shoulder blades, tracing the shape of the bone under her skin. She thinks of Solas, staring at her too-thin body with wide, horrified eyes, the pain in his voice when he had admitted he didn’t know how to help her. Suddenly, the mirth that had been there only moments ago is gone, vanished like mist under the sun.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

“For what?” Bull asks through a mouthful of chicken.

She doesn’t know. She just—feels the apology is necessary, for some reason. But instead of explaining herself, she bites her lip and holds her silence, focusing on eating Bull’s half of the spaghetti. The spice lingers even on the pasta, and Bull has to ring Alys again to get another basket of hot buttered rolls and three jugs of water. Well. Ariala says she only needs one, but Bull asks for three.

“Just in case,” he says.

Once Alys is gone again and Ariala’s pasta is finished, she tucks into the basket of rolls. When she offers one to Bull, he shakes his head with a smile. “Nah, I’m full,” he says, finishing the rest of his chicken. As she eats, he lounges behind her, his chest acting as an excellent pillow for her to curl up on.

“How are you feeling, boss? Really.”

The question takes her off-guard. “Fine,” she says, automatically, refusing to look at him. She tears off a tiny chunk of bread.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m going to ask again and this time you’re not allowed to say _fine_. So—how are you feeling, boss?”

Ariala stops, lowering the bun to her lap. “I’m not feeling anything,” she says. “I haven’t felt _anything_ for the past two months.” She swallows. “All I know is I’m not the same person I was before I left. Before the clan was murdered.”

“Who says you have to be?” Bull asks.

“Cassandra, apparently,” she mutters.

“Then fuck Cassandra,” he says through a mouthful of chicken. Ariala looks up at him, shocked. Bull doesn’t even notice; he’s too busy patting around his mouth with a napkin that’s almost comically small for his hand. “You went through some shit, boss. You’re not going to come out the same. And that’s okay. It’d be okay even if you hadn’t gone through some shit. People change. Things change. _That’s okay_.”

Tears prick her eyes. Finally she turns around, facing Bull, who is watching her with a solemn expression. She doesn’t know what to make of it. She doesn’t know what to make of _anything_.

“How do the Qunari treat asala-taar?” she asks.

“Re-education, mostly. I don’t know the specifics. Just know it’s a long process.” Bull is unsmiling. “Asala-taar is nasty. I’ve lost a lot of good men because of it. I’d hate to lose you, too, boss.”

Ariala looks down at her hands folded in her lap.

“There was a boy,” she says, finally. “One of two survivors of the attack. He’d been possessed by a demon after the attack. I had to kill him. He bled out in my arms.” Her throat closes up, and she wipes at the skin under her eyes. “I probably… I could’ve done more to save him. I _should’ve_ done more to save him.”

“Maybe you could’ve. But also, maybe not. Don’t stress yourself about it.”

“Don’t stress myself?” she repeats with a scoff, looking up.

“Poor choice of words,” he says. “I’m saying this: if you spend the rest of your life thinking about what-ifs, you’ll go crazy. I’m not telling you to move on, because that’s shitty advice, and probably impossible. I’m telling you—don’t torture yourself about his death. Don’t torture yourself about what you did or didn’t do or what you could’ve done. The past is past; we can’t change it.”

“We can only live with it,” she says, closing her eyes. _I promised._

Bull sighs. “Yeah.”

She looks down at her nearly empty plate, then gets off the bed, collecting the dishes and putting them on an end table for Alys to deal with. She doesn’t like the idea of someone cleaning up after her, but it’s an embarrassing necessity. She doesn’t know where the dishes are washed—somewhere that’s not the kitchen. She could go find out, but there’s so much work on her desk, she’d feel awful about putting it off _again_.

Maybe with Bull, she can focus enough to actually _do_ something worthwhile.

“Will you stay with me?” she asks. “I need to do work, but I can’t concentrate on it.”

“Sure thing. You got a chessboard around here? Maybe some books?”

“No to the chessboard, but I have a bookshelf.” Most of the books had been from the library, compendiums of fairy tales and nursery rhymes and other things meant for toddlers. She turns away, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, her cheeks. She knows how to read and write now. There’s nothing to be ashamed about.

Still, the shame lingers.

“You don’t happen to have any of Varric’s books, huh? He had a real nasty cliffhanger in chapter eight—”

Ariala groans. “You, too?”

“Hey,” Bull says, “it’s not _that_ bad.”

She gives him a look, and he shrugs, grinning, utterly unapologetic. She shakes her head and goes to her desk, picking up a small pile of paper. _Swords & Shields _ is under one of the piles of paperwork, to her utter confusion. She stares at it before remembering she’d picked it up before Crestwood because she’d been curious about why Cassandra loved it so much. Her bookmark is still there, tucked between the twentieth and twenty-first pages, but she doesn’t remember opening the book, much less finishing chapter one.

It must’ve been awful, then, if she’d had to blot it from her mind like that.

She picks it up and tucks it under her arm. “I’ve got a book for you,” she says, returning to the bed. Bull takes it from her and doesn’t say a word when she leans against him, turning her attention to the first sheet of paper, written in Josephine’s neat hand.

It’s a trade proposal from some Orlesian—silver mines in the Emprise in exchange for the Inquisition supporting his claim over his sister’s for their deceased father’s fourth estate. Ariala doesn’t even get halfway down the page before she closes her eyes and settles more comfortably against Bull, resting her head on his arm.

“Nope,” Bull says, gently shaking her off. “Gotta work, boss.”

She grumbles, yawning, and forces her eyes open. She fights her fatigue as she slowly— _painfully_ slowly, nothing like before, when she could have read twice the work in the same amount of time—works through her small pile, and Bull reads _Swords & Shields _ without making a single sound.

She wonders what Solas would think of _Swords and Shields_.

“Boss,” Bull says, and she realizes she’s been reading the same sentence for the past five minutes.

She looks up at him. “Hm?”

“You said there were two survivors of the attack,” he says. “Who…?”

“My grandmother.” Ariala’s throat closes up. “She died, too. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Bull says, easily. “Thanks for telling me, boss. You know if you change your mind, I’m all ears.”

“I know,” she says, and sits up, pressing her forehead to his for a brief moment. She settles back down on the bed. “Thank you, Bull. For being here with me.”

“Anytime, boss.” He squeezes her shoulder, and she gets back to work.

— ✦ —

That night, she wakes up strangely energized. She pushes herself up, gazing out into the darkness, where the papers on her desk glow in the moonlight. But that is not what had interested her.

She had dreamt of Elvhenan again, and her heart races at the memories left imprinted on the backs of her eyelids. She kicks off her covers, shivering when cool mountain air washes over her, almost as cold as the Emprise. She can feel the sweat on her back and sides, making her shirt cling to her body. After a steadying breath, she gets out of bed—for the first real time in four days—and moves to the center of the room, turning on her heel.

Her bed is massive: wide enough for three Iron Bulls, its four posts stretching near to the ceiling, covered in a canopy of blue and gold silk. There are carved lions as the bases of the posts, painted in gold. The bed is an Orlesian style, modeled after the furnishings in Halamshiral, and Ariala remembers quite clearly the day she’d bought it in Val Royeaux, how happy she’d been. Before the Inquisition, the finest fabric her clan could hope for was scraps of silk, or soft fur for winter linings. Once the Inquisition had grown powerful and wealthy, she had been eager to experience all the luxuries suddenly at her fingertips.

But it’s not necessary. None of it is. It’s all a symbol of Orlesian power. If the Inquisition is to help her secure the Dales, if her People are to have a home, she cannot be an Orlesian puppet—she cannot abandon her people, her culture.

She must be a symbol of the People, not of Orlais. And if that has to start with her own decor, then so be it.

Still strangely energized, she hurries to the massive armoire that hosts her dresses, and the dresser beside it. She gathers armfuls of beautiful creations of silk and lace and taffeta, stiff-skirted petticoats and pearl-embroidered bodices and high detachable collars, and tosses all of them on the bed. All of them were beautiful, and all of them were Orlesian, and all of them she had only worn once, to woo some noble or another because they had resources they needed.

What is left is an empty armoire, and a dresser whose only items are old clothes she’d pushed to the back long ago. She reaches in, ready to bring her old clothes back to the forefront, and her fingers close around a small satchel instead. Brow furrowing, she leans back, lifting her hand up.

In her palm is a satchel of dried flowers. When she sniffs it, it still smells faintly like lavender, and tears prick her eyes. She puts the satchel beside her and takes back all of her old clothes. She lifts an old green tunic, made of cotton, not silk, and brings it to her nose. Again she smells lavender; she thinks of her grandmother and squeezes her eyes shut.

She is Dalish. Never again will she forget—not her history, not her People.

Inhaling deeply, she changes into her old green tunic and hunting leathers, and even that small act—wearing new clothes for the first time in five days—is somehow refreshing. It makes the emptiness lessen, makes her feel more like a person and less like a shell. She washes her face and cleans her teeth, and spends half an hour brushing out all the tangles and knots in her hair.

When the bells ring in the fifth hour of the morning, she almost feels back to normal. But even now her eyes are sore, and her eyelids are heavy, and the bed looks so soft she just wants to crawl back under the covers and sleep the fatigue away.

She doesn’t. She ties her hair in a bun and fights a cringe at how she can feel each individual strand, slicked by built-up oil, stiff in her hands. She puts on a bracer and leaves her quarters, descending the steps barefoot.

The Great Hall’s braziers are lit, shining orange upon long black banners that flank a dragon’s skull she’d fashioned into a throne. The burning eye of the Inquisition gazes upon her, and she stares right back, up until she notices light under Josephine’s office door.

Oh. Right. Josephine is about the only other person in the entire Inquisition who’s an early riser. Ariala crosses the Great Hall, knocking politely, and waits until she hears Josephine’s _enter!_ to open the door.

Josephine looks up from her desk, eyes widening when she sees Ariala in the doorway. She is immaculately put together, even this early in the morning. Ariala thinks of her splotchy face and greasy hair, and fights the self-consciousness that blooms sickly in her chest.

Josephine looks neither happy nor unhappy to see her, and Ariala doesn’t know what to make of it. “Inquisitor,” she says, sounding mildly pleased. “It is good to see you. Please, come in.”

“‘Inquisitor,’” Ariala repeats, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “Uh oh. Am I in trouble, Josie?”

“It is not that,” Josephine is quick to assure her, with a small tight smile she gives whenever Leliana suggests murder at a War Council meeting. Shit, she’s definitely in trouble. Josephine sets her quill aside and blows gently on the letter in front of her, dusting it with sand from a shaker afterward. Setting the letter aside, she leans forward, hands clasping atop her desk. “It is only that I… may have bad news. Please, sit. Would you like some sweets?”

Ariala obliges her, plucking an Antivan almond-and-honey treat she won’t eat from the small painted bowl at the corner of her desk. She sits down, feeling very much like she had whenever Terisin had sat her down in preparation to lecture her.

Josephine’s mouth opens, then shuts, and they stare at each other for several moments. The crackle of the fire in the hearth and the hiss of dozens of candles illuminating the room are the only sounds in her entire office. Finally Josephine takes a breath and sits back in her chair, squaring her shoulders, fingers tightening around each other.

“The Inquisition has lost Teyrn Trevelyan’s support,” she says. Ariala blinks.

“Who?”

“Teyrn Trevelyan,” Josephine repeats, ever the picture of patience, “is the second-most influential figure in Free Marcher politics, behind only Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven, whom you alienated when you refused to support his attempt to annex Kirkwall. Teryn Trevelyan’s support for us has always been tepid; he lost his two youngest daughters in the Conclave explosion, and he has always held a grudge against you for surviving when they did not.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“He has assured the Inquisition’s diplomats that his grudge is borne out of a father’s grief. But this letter,” Josephine pulls a fold of parchment from a neat stack in front of her and offers it to Ariala, “is a direct result of your actions in Wycome.”

Ariala takes it from her. She tries to read it, but the handwriting is too small and too cramped to be easily legible, and it hurts her eyes. She stares at the parchment for several long, awkward moments before Josephine clarifies. “His brother, Eddard Trevelyan, was a retired Knight Commander of Ostwick’s Circle. Several weeks ago, Ser Trevelyan and a company of other retired or former Templars left Ostwick to investigate a report from Wycome about an abomination in a nearby Dalish camp.”

Oh. Suddenly she understands.

“Was it truly necessary to kill him, Ari?” Josephine asks, just the barest hint of frustration in her voice.

Mouth dry, Ariala hands over the letter. “He attacked Solas,” she says. “Smited him, cleansed his mana, knocked him to the ground and put a boot on his back. If I hadn’t shown up when I did, it probably would have only gotten worse. He deserved what he got.”

The slight hints of tension in Josephine’s face smooth over, like a placid mask. She exhales. “I see,” she murmurs.

“I’m not sorry for killing him. But I’m sorry it’s made your job harder.”

“While I appreciate that sentiment, his death still had consequences. The Marchers value their independence fiercely, and they see the deaths of Willem Booth, Eddard Trevelyan, and the other Ostwick Templars as both unlawful executions and willful infringements upon the sovereignty of the Marcher city-states.”

“Willem Booth,” Ariala hisses, leaning forward in her chair, “ _admitted to me_ that he helped murder my _family._ I don’t regret his death, and if I had the choice I would do it again without hesitation. I can’t believe you’re siding with them over _me_ because his death is politically inconvenient for you!”

Shock flits over Josephine’s face before she catches herself. “That is deeply unfair of you.”

“Is it?” Ariala sneers.

Josephine closes her eyes and takes a breath, opening her eyes and giving Ariala a steady look. “I in no way share these views, Ariala. Believe me, I do not. All I am saying is that you might be more considerate of your actions and their consequences in the future.”

“Sure,” Ariala says, nodding, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Sure. Next time someone participates in the slaughter of innocents, the slaughter of _my people_ , and brags about it, I’ll just give them a smack on the wrist. That’s sure to change anything.”

She stands up. Josephine opens her mouth but Ariala holds her hand up. That dark anger is back, simmering hot in her gut, and she shakes her head, turning away, resisting the urge to throw something. “No. We’re done here.”

“There are concerns the Inquisition grows too ambitious, Inquisitor,” Josephine calls out at her back. “Not just in Wycome, but in Ferelden too. They think your power is unchecked and that your violations of state sovereignty in favor of growing the Inquisition’s power will only continue, indeed, increase, after Corypheus’s fall, and your actions do _nothing_ to discourage those fears!”

Ariala shakes her head and leaves the office, slamming the door shut behind her. She goes straight to the Undercroft, which is still abandoned this early in the morning, and finds one of her bows in a chest. Afterward she goes to the training yard, finding a practice dummy and standing fifty paces from it. She takes a deep breath and fishes an arrow from the quiver at her side.

She hasn’t used her bow since before they left her camp, and when she draws the bowstring back she can already tell she’s out of practice. She lets the arrow fly anyway.

Miss.

She gets the arrow, walks fifty paces, and turns back toward the dummy.

Miss.

She does it again, and this time hits an arm. Her next arrow hits the stomach. She keeps shooting until her back is drenched with sweat and the sun is rising over the mountain peaks, and the anger that had fueled her march from the Great Hall has been devoured by the emptiness in her chest once more.

“Your Worship! You’re up early!”

Krem’s voice is cheerful, echoing in the near-empty space of the courtyard. Ariala doesn’t look away as she looses her next arrow, watches as it flies and buries itself in the middle of the dummy’s straw-stuffed face. “Hi, Krem.”

“You know, the Chargers were talking about how to welcome you back properly. There’s booze, which is always a good choice, but then Skinner remembered how you said you wanted to practice your archery on horseback. So, we set up a riding trail with hanging targets, if you wanted to go out with Syl and practice.”

Ariala looks at him. He’s out of his armor, tunic sleeves rolled up to his elbows, leaning against the fence blocking off the sparring area. When he catches her eye, he smiles; she doesn’t return it. “Thanks, Krem,” she says. “Maybe later.”

She goes back to shooting. The next arrow pierces the dummy’s heart with a _thunk_. Her arms are burning, and she can smell her own sweat in the crisp morning air. If autumn hasn’t reached Skyhold yet, it’s certainly on the way.

“Oh,” Krem says, and she hears the disappointment in his voice. It should fill her with guilt, but she feels nothing. _Thunk_ goes the next arrow, into the shoulder. Two more practice arrows left, and then she’d have to go get them all back.

“Well, if you ever change your mind,” Krem says. “Let me know, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

 _Thunk. Thunk_. The two arrows hit the chest, one in the sternum and one in the liver. She hears Krem’s footsteps on the grass but doesn’t watch him walk away. Her mouth is dry, her body coated in sweat. She needs a bath, but just the thought of it exhausts her. Whatever strange energy had motivated her a few hours ago is completely gone.

Her stomach growls even though she doesn’t feel hungry, which means she probably _is_ hungry. Ariala sighs and lowers her bow. She looks around, ready to call Krem back, but he’s already gone, disappeared into the tavern. Dalish is leaning against the tavern wall, watching her. After a moment, Dalish nods at her and follows Krem into the tavern.

Somehow, Dalish’s silence makes her feel worse than rejecting Krem had. She swallows, looking down at her bow. _You’re only pushing them away like this_ , she tells herself. _Soon you’ll be alone and no one will care about you anymore. And you’d deserve it._

She thinks of her gravestone in the Fade— _Abandonment_ —and sudden tears sting her eyes. She takes a deep breath, blinking them away. Gods, she’s so pathetic.

Ariala closes her eyes and turns on her heel, her whole body tired and aching despite not even _doing_ anything, her legs feeling jellied as she climbs the staircase leading up to the castle proper. The castle, at least, is awake now, though not nearly so crowded as it gets in the afternoons and evenings. Varric is writing at his table, spectacles on his nose, but he looks up when she walks into the Great Hall and sits down in front of him.

“I stink,” she says. “Sorry.”

“Forgiven, Sunflower,” he says with an easy smile. “Trust me, I’ve smelled worse. You ever been to Darktown or the Hanged Man on a Saturday night, you’ll know I’m right.”

Ariala can’t bring herself to smile back. He sets down his quill and takes off his spectacles, cleaning them absently with the hem of his shirt as he watches her, something soft and grieved in his eyes. He looks at her like a ghost, sometimes, though she doesn’t know if it’s because she reminds him of Hawke or another reason entirely.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she says.

“Uh huh.” His lips turn downward, just a little, before he offers another easy smile. “Well, I’m organizing a Wicked Grace session tonight. You in? Sparkler’s promised to show us his seven-scarves dance if we get enough drink in him.”

“Actually, I, um, I have a lot of work to do.” A lot of work, and no energy to do it. She watches him nod, his disappointment evident on his face, and guilt twists inside her. _You’re pushing everyone away, idiot._ She adds, “Thanks, though, Varric.”

“Well, if you change your mind, our table’s always open. I might even get Chuckles to come tonight. I’ve always wanted to see him and Josephine face off, you know? The ultimate showdown. My money’s on Josephine, though. She can count cards like no one else.”

She thinks of Solas essentially robbing sailors of their money in cards, and half-smiles. “I’ll bet on Solas. Oh, that reminds me—I owe you a sovereign.”

Varric scratches at his chin. “You’ll have to remind me why. You lose so many bets to me it’s hard to keep track.”

“Ha-ha.” Ariala frowns at him, though it’s only half-hearted. Varric grins at her, and the emptiness in her recedes, just a little bit. “As if you don’t have a logbook of every sovereign we wager, Merchant Guilder.”

Varric barks out a laugh, lifting his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Hey! I’ve forgiven most of those debts—your debts, anyway—after helping me with that copycat bullshit. Your name’s all scratched out, I swear. I’ll show you tonight at Wicked Grace if you come.”

Ariala rolls her eyes. “Anyway. I owe you a sovereign because Solas is a ginger.”

Varric’s grin turns a shade wicked. “I _knew_ it. But how, pray tell, did you learn this _fascinating_ bit of information about our favorite Fadewalker?”

Ariala only smiles at him and he bursts into laughter, clearly drawing his own conclusions. She waits until he finishes and then says, “He didn’t bring enough shaving cream for the trip. His hair grew out a little bit, just enough for me to tell.”

Varric’s smile slips into a half-sincere pout. “Oh, that’s way less fun.”

“I know. But it’s the truth.” It wasn’t, not really, but she doesn’t think he would understand the dreams from the Well, or the fact that she’d seen Solas in his youth who-knows-how-many thousands of years ago. Ariala drums her fingers on the table. “Also, one more thing—could you write to your Dalish friend? Merrill was her name, I think?”

Varric’s expression becomes guarded. “About what?” he asks.

“She is officially invited to Skyhold. We have an eluvian I think she’d be interested in.”

The guardedness eases, a little bit, though it doesn’t disappear completely.

Ariala adds, “Also, she’s probably way more likeable than Morrigan. Did you know Morrigan asked me if I knew who Mythal was?” Ariala makes a vague gesture at her forehead, where her Mother’s mark branches out like the canopy of a tree over her forehead and temples. “Mythal. Whose vallaslin _I am wearing_. Anyway, yes, invite her, tell her she’s welcome at Skyhold whenever. She was my favorite in your book.”

Varric smiles at her, amused. _Got him._ “I didn’t know you’d read it. You told me you didn’t like my books, which! Fair.”

“I read _Hard in Hightown_ and _Tale of the Champion_ during the trip back to Skyhold, and honestly, Varric, I have no idea why you’re so popular,” she confesses. Varric laughs, nodding, and she continues. “However, if it’s any consolation, Solas loves your books.”

At that, Varric’s mouth drops open. “You’re _shitting_ me,” he laughs, his tone betraying his shock.

“I’m not.” Ariala half-smiles, standing up. “Well, Varric, it’s been fun. Thanks for the chat.”

“Anytime, Sunflower.”

She returns to her rooms and summons Alys. Her handmaid curtseys when she arrives and stands straight, hands clasped behind her back. “Could you draw me a bath, please?” Ariala asks. She glances at the multitude of dresses and too-ornate clothes sitting on her bed. “And a box. Maybe two.”

“Will these go into storage, Your Worship?” Alys asks.

“No. I’m going to sell them.”

Shock flits over her face. Her mouth opens—no doubt to ask what Ariala was thinking, selling such fine clothes—but Ariala is too tired to have a conversation right now. “Alys,” she says. “Please.”

Alys goes. Ariala sighs, sitting down on the couch, closing her eyes and giving in to the fatigue that’s been wearing at her all day. Gods, she wants a nap. Maybe a six-hour one. But there’s so much to do.

She forces herself to her feet, her shoulders and arms sore, and crosses to the desk. She pushes aside the box from Jader and picks up more letters and missives and other important paperwork she has to do. But just looking at them _exhausts_ her, like someone had put invisible anvils on her bones. She sets the letters down, closing her eyes again, and presses her hand to her eyes.

 _Come on_ , she tells herself. _This is your job. Buck up and do it. Don’t be useless._

She opens one and rounds the desk to sit down. It’s a report about… whatshisface in the Emerald Graves. The noble who hid his nobility. She can’t even remember his name. But it can’t be urgent if Cullen had decided to send it to her desk for her perusal after her return. With a groan, she sets the report aside and stands.

She goes to her bedroll, unrolling it and setting dirtied clothes aside to be laundered. Under the clothes is her childhood plush hart. Another string had come loose on its patchwork front leg. Ariala sits back, holding it in her lap, plucking absently at the string. She doesn’t move until she hears the door open downstairs and springs into action, dropping the hart and cursing under her breath as she collects her dirty clothes.

She has deposited them with the rest of the laundry by the time Alys emerges, and stands with her hands on her hips, reasonably proud of herself for looking like she had accomplished something. She scoops the hart from the floor and holds it tucked under an arm as she watches the servants work.

The awkwardness of watching people fill her bath for her has never subsided in her two years as Inquisitor. No one had prepared a bath for her until they’d settled into Skyhold. In the clan, even in Haven, Ariala had depended on sponge baths and, when they were available, lakes and deep rivers.

Two more servants bring up empty wooden boxes and place them by the foot of Ariala’s massive bed. Ariala waits for the servants and Alys to leave, then places the hart on her bedside table, turning it so it faces the bed at all times. Finally she peels her sweat soaked clothes from her body, shivering at the cold autumn air that brushes over her skin, bringing with it unwelcome reminders of the Emprise.

Naked, she returns to her bedroll, and after rifling through it manages to find her journal, unwritten in for at least a week. She grabs a quill and inkpot and withdraws to her private bathing chamber—an antechamber that Josephine had completely remodeled during one of Ariala’s longer journeys across Thedas.

Plush towels and washcloths sit folded on an overstuffed chair, positioned beside the marble-and-mahogany tub that sits in the center of the room. Hanging over the side of the bath is a wicker basket lined in linen full of fancy toiletries—oils, perfume, ground volcanic aurum to exfoliate the face and body. Ariala had been delighted when Josephine had shown it to her, because it meant she no longer had to bathe in hollowed-out barrels.

Now it just seems like too much extravagance. Too many things to do.

Ariala gets into the tub without too much fuss, and reaches over to tug the chair closer to her. She balances the inkpot on the chair cushion and opens her journal, flipping to a blank page. She writes, carefully:

_Plans for the Dales:_

 




 

She stares at the blank page. Whatever frenetic energy that had fueled her earlier this morning is gone, and now she cannot think of a single thing she wants to accomplish with the Dales. A homeland for the People? But they were scattered throughout Thedas: Dalish elves might clash with city-elves. Orlesian and Fereldens would _definitely_ clash, shared elven blood be damned. And how would she get the slaves in Tevinter all the way down to the Dales?

She doesn’t even know where to begin, and that knowledge is overwhelming, suffocating the small voice that had told her to get started.

Ariala groans and lowers her head to rest it on her forearm. The warm bathwater laps at her sternum. After a moment, she leaves her journal on the seat cushion and caps the inkwell, setting the quill between the journal’s pages. She turns in the bath, sinking down until the water is up to her ears, and the world is quiet.

She washes herself by rote. The sweetly-scented oil is slick between her fingers, and when she runs her hands through her hair, she can feel ridges where dandruff has collected on her scalp.

 _You’re so disgusting_ , she thinks to herself, swallowing hard. She thinks of how she must have looked to Iron Bull, and Josephine, and Alys, and squeezes her eyes shut.

She ends up letting the oil sit in her hair and scrubbing her face with the washcloth until her skin hurts. By the time she’s done, the bathwater is already cooled, and she’s certain she’s wasted an hour of the day, if not more. She rinses her hair, then reaches into the basket, pulling out a small pot of ground volcanic aurum, meant to help the body shed dead skin. There’s a vial of some special oil from Antiva meant to go on her body after the exfoliation, to soften the skin and perfume it.

It’s unnecessary. But she wants to smell nice. But it would be a waste of time. But she’s already in the bath.

She inhales, overwhelmed. Tears burn her eyes, inexplicably. She squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to let a single one fall. She’s cried enough. She’s mourned her family as they deserve. It’s time to move on, to get back to her duties, to stop being so pathetic.

She ends up using the ground volcanic aurum to slough off the dead skin, then rubbing more oil into her skin, and hating the guilt that gnaws at her for using these luxuries. When she emerges from the cold bath, shivering, she wraps a towel around herself and leans down, opening the stop that plugged the tub. Another thing Josephine had ordered installed—a working drainage system throughout the castle.

As the bath drains, Ariala towels herself off, though the thick mass of her hair still drips water even after she thinks she’s wrung out every drop of water. She shrugs on a silk robe draped over the back of the armchair and grabs her journal and quill and ink, padding out of the bathing chamber on near-silent feet, acutely aware of the wet spot on her back between her shoulder blades. She grabs her brush and douses its bristles in rose oil, running the bristles through her hair until it’s silky smooth and soft to the touch.

Afterwards, she sits on the bed, feeling the mattress sink as it accommodates her, and in that moment she wants nothing more than to take a nap.

She doesn’t. She sets the inkwell on the end table, scratches out the _Plans for the Dales,_ and writes instead _To Do List._ Her first item is just as blank, until, finally, she writes:

 

  1. __Apologize to Josiphine - talk Dales (also Lelliana)?__



 

They would be baby steps, but it’s a start.

Baby steps.

She lowers her journal to her lap and looks longingly at her pillow. It doesn’t take long to make a decision. She’ll take a short nap, and when she wakes up, she’ll be energized enough to do the work she’s been putting off.

Yeah. Perfect.

She sets her journal on her end table, right next to her plush hart. She glances at the Orlesian dresses, still draped over the end of her bed, still waiting to be packed away. Instead of getting up and doing a basic task like packing the dresses she’ll be packing anyway, Ariala looks away and climbs into bed. She buries her face in her pillow, stretching out to lay flat on her stomach, uncaring when her movement sends the dresses sliding off the bed to pool on the floor. With a sigh, she closes her eyes and turns her head, facing away from the early afternoon light.

For once, it doesn’t take her an hour or more to fall asleep.

— ✦ —

When she wakes, it’s nightfall, and Dorian is in her room reading a book. She sees him and drops her face into her pillow, muffling her groan.

“Good evening!” he greets, too cheerfully. Ariala just wants to go back to sleep. She’s so warm, so tired, it would be easy to go back to sleep—if Dorian hadn’t shut his book and sat up on the couch. “You’re awake. Marvelous.”

“How long was I out?” she asks, groggy and hoarse.

“I’ve been reading since, oh, two in the afternoon. And it is currently half past seven.” Dorian crosses his arms, fingertip tapping against his chin. “I do like your quarters, by the way. Not that I couldn’t suggest some changes—your taste _is_ a little… over-the-top, perhaps.”

“I know,” she says into the pillow. “Too much Orlesian bullshit.”

That makes him laugh. She hears his footsteps as he rounds the bed. “Ah- _ha!_ Is that why there’s thousands of royals’ worth of dresses in a pile on the floor?”

She nods, feeling the mattress dip under his weight. She feels his hand on her back and lifts her head toward him, a silent request that he obliges, stroking her now mostly-dry hair. She settles back down with a satisfied sigh.

“You know,” Dorian says, “Iron Bull and Solas both advised being patient. They thought you would come around on your own time. I, however, am not a patient man. Especially not if _being patient_ means allowing you to wallow in isolation for days on end.”

Ariala closes her eyes. “Sorry.”

Dorian sighs, still stroking her hair. When he pauses, she lifts her head again, settling down with a sigh once he resumes. “No, I am sorry. That came out unfairly accusatory. I only… I am worried about you, amica. All of us are. Skyhold was so dreadfully quiet while you were gone, you know. Corypheus trying to rebuild his strength before the final assault and all that.” He sighs again. “I missed you.”

She doesn’t reply. She feels like she should apologize again, but it seems like all she’s done since getting to Skyhold is apologize, and sleep, and cry. She just wants to lay down and stare at the wall and do nothing.

“So,” Dorian continues, after a prolonged silence, “I hear you will not be joining us for potentially our last Wicked Grace game. Though, admittedly, we’ve been saying that about all our Wicked Grace games for the past two weeks.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Maybe later. I’m just… I’m not interested.”

“You used to love Wicked Grace nights,” Dorian points out, voice soft.

She thinks: _I’m not who I was before._

She thinks back to what Bull had said: _People change. That’s okay._

So she bites back another apology and shrugs her shoulders. “A shame,” Dorian says, clicking his tongue. “I told Varric I was going to do my seven silk scarves dance. You won’t get to see it if you don’t come along, of course.” His stroking her hair never wavers, and she can’t hear any judgement or condescension in his voice. Still, when she blinks, tears prick her eyes, and she buries her face in her pillow. If he notices, he does not mention it.

“Sorry,” she says again, hating herself. She knows she’ll regret it if she doesn’t get up, but she just—she’s so tired. She just wants to sleep. She doesn’t want to leave her bed. “Not tonight, Dorian.”

“All right.” He pulls his hand away. “You know where to find us if you change your mind.”

She nods, turning her head from the pillow and looking up at him. He offers her a smile, some unreadable emotion in his gaze, and squeezes her shoulder before standing. He doesn’t say anything else, and she listens to his footsteps cross the room with a sinking heart.

When the door closes behind him downstairs, there is something terribly final about it.

Her chest is tight. She wants to kick off the covers, get dressed, run after him and tell him she’s changed her mind, but she doesn’t have the energy. She stays in bed instead, feeling worse and worse as the minutes tick by, and closes her eyes.

She’s made her decision. Now she’s got to stick with it.

She’s almost fallen asleep when the door opens _again_. A spike of annoyance shoots through her and she sits up, fully ready to give Dorian a piece of her mind, when she hears Sera’s unmistakable cackle, followed by Varric’s belly-deep laughter.

“Hope you’re decent, Inky!” Sera calls. “We’re coming!”

Ariala rolls out of bed and sprints to her half-unpacked bedroll, scooping up a random armful of clothes and disappearing behind the divider. She sheds her robe and pulls on her tunic, listening to the steps of her friends. There’s definitely more than just two people—she can hear Cassandra’s voice, and Dorian’s, and Bull’s. That’s Vivienne’s heels clicking on the floor, and that’s Josephine’s gait.

“Shite,” she hisses, shimmying into her smalls and balancing on one leg as she tries to yank her leathers on. She raises her voice. “I’m behind the divider! Come on up!”

When she emerges from behind the divider, a chorus of greetings welcome her.

Her entire Inner Circle, save Rainier, and her advisors are all in her room. Bull’s carrying some kind of foldable table under his arm, Solas and Cole are both holding trays full of food. Varric is carrying cards, and Dorian holds one of her stolen boxes—she hadn’t even notice he’d taken it. The box is full, brimming with a variety of ales and whiskies and liquors taken from the tavern. Everyone else carries a chair. Cullen’s out of his armor, as are Cassandra and Leliana; Josephine, as ever, is immaculate.

Josephine smiles when she sees Ariala, and her throat closes up in response. She looks away, gaze landing on Sera, whose grin falters when she looks at her. After a moment, Sera rallies, grinning widely and planting her chair down, moving to help Bull set up the table.

Dorian sets the box down beside the couch, and Solas and Cole go to put the trays of food on Ariala’s unmade bed.

“Hi, guys,” Ariala says. “What are you… uh, what’s going on?”

Vivienne steps around the other visitors, two bottles of wine in her hands. Though she doesn’t even glance at the pile of Orlesian dresses on the floor, Ariala just _knows_ she’s seen it, and feels her cheeks heat in shame. “Sorry for the mess,” she says, quietly.

“Nonsense, my dear,” Vivienne says, with a warm smile that puts her at ease. She hands Ariala a bottle and Ariala glances down at the label, her eyebrows raising when she sees it’s her favorite sweetwine. “It was brought to our attention that you perhaps wanted some company, and that we have yet to properly welcome you back to Skyhold.”

Ariala blinks. “You’re throwing me a party?” she asks.

“We’re throwing you a party!” Varric confirms.

“We even brought that sweet garbage you so adore,” Dorian says with a long-suffering sigh, in the middle of unpacking the various tavern alcohols. “And we had the cook make all of your favorite meals. Plus cookies, you can thank Sera for that.”

Inexplicably, Ariala’s eyes water, and she swallows hard. Vivienne squeezes her arm. “Shall we, my dear?” she asks, gently guiding her to the long table Bull and Sera have set up. Josephine is the first to sit, folding her hands primly on its surface, and Leliana sits beside her, as does Cullen. Ariala takes a seat across from her.

“Josephine,” Ariala says, “I wanted to say—I’m sorry.”

Cullen’s brows furrow, but Leliana’s expression doesn’t change. She knows, then, probably, which isn’t a surprise.

Josephine inhales, slowly, and then offers a small smile. She reaches out, clasping her hand over Ariala’s and squeezing. “We may discuss it tomorrow,” she says. Her smile widens, slightly. “It’s Wicked Grace night.”

Ariala nods, pulling away, straightening as people take their seats. She hopes Solas will sit next to her, but Bull and Dorian take the seats beside her before anyone even has a chance to sit down. Dorian has a mug of some dark stinking liquid, and Bull has an even bigger mug of something red. When Bull sees her looking, he grins. “Want to try it?”

Ariala half-smiles and shakes her head. “Whose idea was this?” she asks.

“The kid’s,” Varric says. Sera makes a face.

Cole is sitting between Varric and Cassandra. At his nickname, he blinks, lifting his head. “You thought you’d lost us because you pushed us away,” Cole says. “But that’s not true, not really. We’re all here with you.”

She swallows hard again, eyes hot. Beside her, Bull squeezes her shoulder, and Varric grins at her over the rim of his cup. Cassandra is staring at her, but when Ariala meets her gaze, she hangs her head. “Hey, Cass,” Ariala says. Cassandra looks up at once, and Ariala smiles. “You’re still my favorite.”

“Hey,” Bull says, at the exact same time Varric says “Hey!” and Dorian makes an affronted sound. Vivienne laughs. But Cassandra is smiling, a pleased look in her eyes, and Ariala grins at her. For the first time in months, her smile feels genuine.

“Now,” she says, getting up and going to get some food. She piles her plate high and returns, noting Bull’s approving smile. She looks to Solas across the table, to find him watching her, a similar look on his face. Something warm blooms in her chest. She turns to Varric. “You gonna keep us hanging, Varric, or are you gonna deal so Josephine can clean us out and get on with her night?”

“I don’t know about that,” Varric says, shuffling. “Chuckles is here. He might give her a run for her money.”

“Oh,” Josephine says, turning to Solas. “They exaggerate, I assure you, Master Solas.”

Solas chuckles, punctuated by a snort that makes Ariala’s chest tighten. He lifts his glass of sweetwine toward Josephine, who laughs in turn and clinks her glass against his. “I am certain they do not,” he replies. “I look forward to the challenge, Ambassador.”

“Bonne chance,” Leliana says to Solas, then shares a smile with Josephine. “Il en a besoin.”

Josephine giggles, and Vivienne smiles.

“Oi, what’d she say?” Sera asks.

“Good luck,” Vivienne translates, looking to Solas. “He needs it.”

Solas’s smile widens, and silently he takes another drink of his sweetwine.

“Okay, now we’ve _gotta_ take bets,” Varric says. He sets the cards aside and takes out two royals. “Ruffles,” he says, setting one to his left. He sets the other to his right. “Chuckles.”

“Varric,” Josephine chides, smiling, but adds her coin to the Josephine pile.

Sera cackles and dumps her entire coin purse in Josephine’s pile. “You’ll destroy him for me, Josie, yeah?”

Josephine’s smile widens into a true grin, one she hides by sipping at her wine.

Cole puts a daisy on Solas’s pile and a crushed piece of ribbon on Josephine’s. No one asks him to explain. They go around the table—Vivienne, Cullen, and Leliana all bet on Josephine, as does Dorian. Cassandra and Bull bet on Solas, who does not react to their support except with a slight nod.

Finally, it is Ariala’s turn. She retrieves a handful of coins from her desk and returns, tossing all of them into Solas’s significantly slimmer pile. Solas raises his eyebrows and she shrugs. “Felt bad for you,” she says, and offers a slight smile. “Better win me my money back, Solas.”

“I shall endeavor to do so,” he returns.

“Eugh,” Sera says. “Stop with the flirting, yeah? Let’s get on with it!”

Solas rolls his eyes, but evidently finds it a point not worth arguing. Varric sets the two piles aside—“for the final showdown,” he explains—and shuffles the deck again. Ariala leans against Bull’s shoulder, eating absently as Varric deals out the cards. Varric, of course, is the one who starts the storytellings of the night: recounting all the details of the _Hard in Hightown_ copycat, which had been in the depths of drama when she’d left and resolved by the time she’d returned.

Bull tells them of the Chargers’ missions in the Hissing Waste and Western Approach. He’s in the middle of proudly recounting Krem single-handedly wrestling a phoenix into submission when Varric taps his cards on the table, signaling the end of the round. “It was great,” Bull says, nodding. “I’ll tell you later, boss.”

“All right,” Varric says, at the end of the round. “Moment of truth. Show ‘em.”

Sera is the first to fold, as she’d spent all of her money betting on Josephine. Dorian folds after her, preferring instead to watch and drink the sour reds he’d brought from the cellar.

They go around the table, revealing their hands. Ariala’s reasonably proud of hers—two of a kind, the best hand she’s ever had if she remembers right—but it’s not the best hand by any means. No one has a better hand than Varric (four of a kind) until it’s Solas’s turn to reveal his hand. He stares at his cards, then looks at Josephine, and sets them down on the table.

A straight flush.

Josephine hums, her expression utterly unreadable. “An excellent hand,” she comments.

Solas smiles. “Do I detect nervousness, Ambassador?”

“Not at all, Master Solas,” Josephine says, and reveals a royal flush.

Half the table dissolves into laughter, and the other half is smiling openly. Sera hoots. “ _Get it, elfy!_ ”

The tips of Solas’s ears are pink, but he’s smiling. He meets Ariala’s gaze over the table and she shrugs, unable to stop her smile. “Next time,” she says, and he huffs a laugh through his nose.

“Well done, my dear,” Vivienne commends, and Leliana murmurs something in Josephine’s ear, making her flush and give her a look. Leliana straightens in her seat, looking utterly unrepentant.

Dorian refills Ariala’s glass of sweetwine, then tops his own glass, finishing the bottle. “Did you drink all my sweetwine?” she asks, as Josephine collects her winnings and Varric collects the cards.

“Perhaps.”

“You said it was _garbage_ ,” she replies. “ _Dorian._ ”

“There is an important distinction between undrinkable garbage, like _that_ —” Dorian says, nodding to Iron Bull’s mug. Bull shrugs, downing his drink, and Dorian shudders, looking back to her. “—and tolerable garbage, like yours.”

“He likes it,” Cole pipes up.

“Oh?” Ariala asks, eyebrows raising. “So you like my garbage?”

“The peach reminds him of Felix,” Cole adds. Ariala stops smiling.

Dorian clears his throat. “Ahem. Thank you, Cole.”

“Why would you lie about liking something?” Cole wonders.

“Kid,” Varric says. “Focus. How’s your hand?”

“Oh.” Cole looks down at his untouched cards. “Not good.”

They play until almost everyone runs out of money to bet with—the only exceptions being Vivienne, who had won once, and Solas and Josephine, who have otherwise been dominating the night—and then Varric suggests clothes as betting tokens instead of coin.

Cullen folds immediately, face red. “Once was plenty,” he says.

The table bursts into laughter, but Ariala doesn’t join in; she smiles instead, slightly, amused at the memory. Vivienne also removes herself from the game, primly gathering up her winnings but remaining seated at the table. Ariala folds as well, and one by one everyone calls it a night except for Solas and Josephine.

“Finally,” Varric says. “Now the real fun starts.”

Cassandra warns, “You should know, Solas, she will wear whatever you bet.”

“Is that so?” Solas asks, and everyone nods except Josephine, whose smug smile looks feline.

“She wore Cullen’s cape the whole day after she won it,” Dorian says.

“It’s not a _cape_ ,” Cullen replies, exasperated. Dorian flaps a hand, disinterested.

Varric starts dealing. Sera gets up to get more food and ends up bringing back a whole plate of cookies. She offers one to Ariala, to Ariala’s surprise and relief, and keeps the rest to herself. Maybe—maybe it means she forgives her for Rainier.

The cookie is perfect, warm and just on the right side of gooey. Ariala savors it as she watches Josephine and Solas play, neither of their expressions revealing anything. The most emotion either of them show is when they blink, but Ariala isn’t quite sure whether or not that’s deliberate.

The room had dissolved into quiet conversations rather than intent focus on the game, but when the final hand is dealt and Solas draws the Angel of Death, Varric calls everyone back to the table. “All right,” he tells Josephine and Solas, “moment of truth. Ruffles, you first.”

“Oh, no, please,” Josephine says, gesturing to Solas. “I insist.”

Solas’s eyebrow arches, and he is utterly expressionless when he lays his cards down on the table, revealing a royal flush of serpents. Sera groans, leaning back in her chair, looking displeased at the turn of events. Leliana says something in Orlesian that’s probably a swear, and Iron Bull smiles. Cassandra and Cullen look at each other.

“Hm,” Josephine says, and lays down a royal flush of angels.

The table loses its collective mind, Sera pounding the table, Bull and Varric laughing, Cassandra and Cullen both trying to figure out how Solas and Josephine had _both_ gotten royal flushes. Cole vanishes, and Dorian gets up to refill his wine. Ariala shakes her head and points at both of them. “You are both _filthy cheats_!” she cries, getting up and going after Dorian to make sure he will eat something.

“What a baseless accusation, Ari,” Josephine chides, though she’s smiling. Ariala grabs a plate and fills it with some of the remaining food—there’s not much left—and gives the plate to Dorian, who rolls his eyes at her but takes it anyway.

“So, will you have a rematch?” Cassandra asks.

“Best three of five?” Solas suggests. Josephine nods, and Varric starts shuffling again.

“So,” Solas says, “who wishes to hear stories of Ariala’s childhood?”

“ _No,_ ” Ariala says, over the chorus of interest from her companions and advisors. Solas merely smiles at her. She looks around the table, a little desperate. “Okay, who wants to hear how Solas gave away all our money in Wycome?”

Solas’s smile slips off his face. “Sorry, Sunflower,” says Varric, “but I’ve gotta hear this. Come on, Chuckles, don’t be shy.”

“Traitor,” she mutters, to Varric’s laughter. As he plays, Solas repeats all of the stories Deshanna had told him during their vigils together, including the one where she’d stuffed halla shit into Terisin’s bunk for making Vunora cry.

Sera cackles at that one, louder than anyone else, and Ariala hides her face in her hands. “Good one!” Sera cheers, a wicked-looking smile spreading over her face. “I’ll have to try that one.”

“Please don’t,” Cullen says, bleakly.

Sera only laughs.

“Moment of truth,” Varric says, after the last round of card dealing. “Show ’em. Ruffles, you first this time.”

Josephine reveals a full house, and Solas, with a slight smirk, reveals four of a kind. Looking stoic, Josephine reaches up and removes her necklace, sliding it over the table to Solas, who takes it without comment. After a moment, Josephine says, “Well played, Master Solas.”

Solas tilts his head. Varric says, “Okay, round two to Chuckles, three left.”

The games end up not lasting very long—after Josephine’s loss, it’s a rapid shuffle of discarded cards, and eye contact in stoic silence, and tapping hands on the table as a signal for Varric to give them a new card. Josephine ends up winning two rounds—collecting Solas’s jawbone necklace and outer tunic—and then Solas had one another one, collecting Josephine’s earrings.

Most of the candles have burned down to stubs now. Sera is sleeping on Cullen’s shoulder, but he doesn’t seem inclined to push her away. He’s watching both Josephine and Solas, looking between them and their cards, as if he may get better at the game just by observing them. Bull had left the table to clear the trays and plates, and now he’s passed out on Ariala’s bed, cuddled up against Cassandra. Vivienne had retired after Josephine’s second victory, with the request that Varric ensure she receives her portion of the pot on the morrow.

“I am humbled by your faith in me, Enchanter,” Solas had said. Vivienne had laughed and disappeared downstairs.

And now, this last match—the sixth game—is in its death throes.

“Moment of truth,” Varric says, quietly. Leliana leans over, whispers something in Josephine’s ear, squeezing her shoulder. Varric shuffles the cards he has and looks to Solas. “Chuckles, your turn.”

Solas hesitates, then looks to Ariala. Ariala smiles at him, leaning against Cassandra. He returns her smile and lays down his cards, revealing a full house up to the king of knights. One card away from a royal flush.

“Well, damn,” Varric says, whistling. “Ruffles, can you beat that?”

Josephine presses her fingertips to her mouth, lips curving into a smile, and reveals a royal flush of songs, plus the Angel of Death card.

Solas’s expression of easy confidence—the faint smile on his mouth, the tilt of his head, relaxed in his certainty of victory—vanishes. He straightens, and behind her fingertips Josephine grins. “Well played, Master Solas,” she says.

Solas laughs, shaking his head. “And to you, Ambassador,” he says. “I would enjoy another match, if you are amenable. Shall I return your necklace and earrings?”

“Oh, no,” Josephine replies. “I intend to wear my spoils, and if you are also so inclined, then please keep them. Your clothing will be returned to you at the end of the day tomorrow.”

“Very well.” Solas gives Varric his cards and looks over to the bed, where Iron Bull is lightly snoring, Sera and Dorian on either side of him. “Perhaps we should rouse them.”

“We should,” Ariala agrees.

Josephine collects her winnings, and together the Inner Circle begins to clean up Ariala’s room. Cassandra folds the table, Dorian and Bull begin to pack the remaining alcohol—leaving a chilled bottle of sweetwine on Ariala’s bedstand—and the others cleaning up the dishes and the chairs. One by one, they all wish her a good night and leave the room. Soon, only Solas remains, standing before the hearth with his hands tucked behind his back.

Before, she would have walked right up to him, wrapped her arms around his chest and rested her cheek in the space between his shoulder blades. He would have leaned against her, taking comfort and strength from her touch, and they would have stood there together, comfortable in the silence and the stillness.

Now—now she doesn’t know what to do.

So she pours herself a glass of honeyed sweetwine, and after a moment’s hesitation pours him one as well. She approaches him silently, and when he notices her presence at his side he turns toward her, expression unreadable in the firelight.

“Hi,” she says. She manages a small smile, and offers him his glass. He takes it and returns her smile.

“Hello,” he returns, just as quietly. After a moment, he says, “I find myself not quite ready to return to my quarters just yet. I would like to stay—if that is acceptable to you, of course.”

“Of course,” she returns, and forces a small laugh. The warm glow from the night of shared laughter and drink and closeness is quickly fading, consumed by the emptiness in her chest that grows colder and colder as the night sky darkens. “You had to put up with me for two months, so. I owe you.”

Solas sets his glass of wine on the mantel and turns toward her. “You speak as if you think you were a burden on me,” he says, and his expression is utterly serious. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

A lump wells in her throat. She looks away, swallowing hard, and takes a sip of her sweetwine, then a larger drink. When she’s done, she presses her lips together and puts her wineglass on the mantelpiece, right next to Solas’s.

At her continued silence, Solas sighs. “I admit,” he says, softly, never looking away from her, “my reason for lingering is entirely selfish.”

He is looking at her as he had in Crestwood, when he had told her she was perfect. It hurts. She doesn’t know why it still hurts. Why she still cares. Why she still misses him so much it feels like a physical ache, even though she knows full well that she cannot trust him, that he is still keeping secrets from her.

“Oh?” she forces herself to say. Her chest is tight, making it hard to breathe. “And what is that selfish reason?”

He takes a breath, and his gaze slides to the desk over her shoulder. “I believe you received a package from Jader,” he says. “Have you opened it yet?”

She blinks at him. “No. It’s just something from some Orlesian, trying to curry favor with me.”

His eyebrow arches, and he looks doubtful for an instant before smiling at her. “Could you open it now?” he asks, his tone endearingly hopeful. “Please?”

Gods, she can’t say no to him when he’s looking at her like that.

Ariala rolls her eyes and turns on her heel, walking over to the box that’s sat on her desk for days. She glances at Solas over her shoulder, catches sight of nervousness naked on his face that smoothes over the moment he notices she is watching.

“Solas,” she says, unable to help her wide smile, “is this a _present?_ ”

He laughs, punctuated by a snort that makes her heart flip. He folds his hands behind his back and approaches the desk. “Perhaps,” he says. “Open it, and you shall see.”

She huffs a laugh through her nose and looks down at the box. It’s not that big, now that she’s looking at it properly—there must not be a lot inside. When she lifts the lid, a stray piece of straw floats in the air, gently settling down on the desk. The box is full of fluffy packing straw, the kind they use to mail delicate objects. Ariala moves a handful and freezes when she sees what’s revealed underneath.

She swallows, hard, and lifts a glass halla, painted white. Its horns are impossibly, delicately curled. She sets it down and, after a few more moments digging, finds two others that are identical in every way except for the horns. A baby halla is also included, too young to even have stubs for horns. She holds it in her palm, staring at it in silence.

 _I made some inquiries,_ Solas had told her.

The vendor in Jader.

She presses a shaking hand to her mouth, biting her lip as tears burn her eyes. She sets the baby halla next to an adult one, and the four halla form a small herd, traveling across the surface of her desk. When she looks up at Solas, he is watching her, wide-eyed and alarmed.

Tears spill over, running down her cheeks, wetting her hand as she tries to stifle a sob.

“Ir abelas,” he says, sounding lost, panicky. Whatever reaction he’d expected, tears had obviously not been involved. Ariala sniffs, and he steps forward, swallowing hard. “Ir abelas, I was presumptuous, I can take them—”

Her shoulders shake, and she sits down, squeezing her eyes shut. She lowers her hand to press against her chest, unable to stop her sob. Gods, she’s so pathetic, crying over something so small, so _stupid_. She doesn’t want to think of what he must think of her.

“Ariala,” Solas says, panicked. She sees him kneel beside the chair, beside _her_ , feels his hand on the armrest. “I’m sorry, I will take them, I was not thinking—”

“I miss you so much,” she chokes out, voice cracking, unable to look at him. She covers her mouth again, squeezing her eyes shut, feeling her shoulders shake as she tries to remaster herself. _Come on, come_ on _, don’t be stupid, don’t be pathetic and useless and weak._

Solas is silent. She inhales, a terrible, shuddering sound. The warmth and light and love that had filled her during the card game is gone, eaten by the emptiness that has replaced her heart. Her hand shakes against her mouth, and her heart pulses in her ears.

She can still hear his voice, back at the campsite outside Wycome: _I have never lied about how I feel for you._

She can imagine his response: _this was a mistake, I’m sorry, I never should have done this, I’m so sorry to have caused you pain._ But he doesn’t say anything, which she can’t decide is better or worse. She forces her eyes open, and sees Solas sitting back on his heels, one hand still on the chair. He’s staring at nothing, gaze distant, and she can’t tell if he looks shocked or upset or both.

Both, probably.

She looks away, eyes burning, and swallows hard. Once she feels like she isn’t going to collapse into hysterics again, she lowers her hand, wiping tears on her pants. Her nose is running; she presses her sleeve underneath her nostrils, sniffling, and lowers her hand a moment later.

“I’m sorry,” she says, quietly. She sniffs, presses her lips together, looking ahead and not at him. “I’m sorry. Thank you for the gift. They’re beautiful.”

Solas’s exhale is slow, measured. “I will leave after Corypheus,” he says. “That _cannot_ change. I do not want you to suffer twice. I do not want to lead you into thinking that this can end in anything other than pain.” He takes a short, soft breath. “But neither do I want you to think you are alone, or abandoned.”

She wants to point out the contradiction in his words. But at that word, _abandoned_ , she thinks of her gravestone in the Fade, and her throat closes up. “You saw that,” she whispers instead.

“As you saw mine,” he replies, just as softly.

“Oh,” she breathes.

Dying Alone and Abandonment. What a pair.

She feels like she should be amused, like she should laugh, inappropriate as that laugh would be—and maybe she would’ve, three months ago, before Crestwood, before Wycome. Now, she is empty. She doesn’t laugh. She looks at the ceiling, blinking, and takes a deep breath.

Solas sighs. “I miss you, as well,” he murmurs.

He says it as if he is confessing a great, terrible secret, one not meant for others’ ears. Ariala swallows, glancing down to see Solas has moved, sitting with his back against the right side of the chair, his head resting against the armrest. All she needs to do is lower her hand and touch him—but in this moment, in this stillness, she thinks it would disrupt the balance that has just now settled between them.

She doesn’t want to risk it. But she misses him. But he might not want her to touch him. But he loves her, still.

She shifts in the seat so she is resting on her hip and side, leaning down and touching his cheek with the barest brush of her fingertips. Solas’s eyes slip shut and he exhales, hard, but he doesn’t move away. Chest tight, not daring to breathe, Ariala lets her fingertips trace the familiar shape of his temple, his cheekbone. She lets them wander down to rest against his mouth.

Solas kisses her fingertips, and she feels his warm breath against her skin. His eyes are still closed, but the skin underneath them is wet, gleaming in the low light of the hearth and the candles and the Anchor.

Somehow, it feels just as intimate as when he had seen the full length of her Mother’s mark for the first time. Somehow, it feels like he is the naked one, sitting bare and vulnerable, exposed to the weight of her gaze. Ariala swallows, moving her palm to hold it over his mouth, feeling his lips, his stubble, his skin with the pads of her fingertips. The top of her hand rests against the top of his mouth, her thumb against his cheek, leaving him free to breathe through his nose.

Solas breathes into her palm, and she holds his face, watching his closed eyes, waiting for him to open them, pull away from her touch, tell her this was a mistake he never should’ve encouraged, _something_. But he sits at the foot of her chair, breathing, silent, and her hand tingles where his lips meet her skin.

“This feels worse than a breakup,” she whispers. Solas’s laugh cracks against her palm, and she feels his lips brush against her skin. A tremble runs up her arm, and she covers her mouth with her left hand. Her eyes feel sore, tender, and she wonders if she has finally wept for the last time. She is so tired of tears.

She moves her right hand away from his mouth, traveling back up his cheeks to wipe away the tears under his eyes. Solas opens his eyes when she smoothes her thumb over the scar on his brow. His eyes find hers in the low light.

“Ir abelas, Inquisitor,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“That’s not my name,” she says.

“Ariala.”

She shakes her head, covering his mouth again, gently, wanting to feel his lips against her skin again. He closes his eyes, expression waxed smooth, beautiful in the darkness. She is so selfish, so hypocritical, and she wishes she could be strong—

Solas mouths _vhenan_ against her palm, and her heart breaks all over again.

He values his secrets more than he values their relationship, more than he values her. She shouldn’t miss him. She shouldn’t want him back in her arms, calling her his heart, sleeping at her side every night, her arms wrapped around him.

She shouldn’t love him so much that her heart hurts.

She moves her hand again, shifting above him, kneeling in the seat so she may lean down and rest her forehead against the top of his head. She feels her haphazard bun fall apart, spill down her shoulder to rest over his collar and the top of his chest. Solas takes a handful of her hair, long and dark and smooth between his fingers, and kisses it, only to release it a moment later.

She rests her cheek on his head. She opens her left hand, examining the spiderwebs of green light that have cracked across her palm, spilling out through her skin. She curls her fingers, then squeezes her left hand between her knees. “Why can’t you tell me what haunts you?” she whispers.

It is several long moments before Solas replies, “Why could you not tell Judith the truth about Wycome?”

She squeezes her eyes shut. Several long minutes pass in silence. She presses her thumb against his mouth, and he kisses it. She fights a shiver. “We’re still broken up, then,” she says.

“Yes.”

“But you still love me?”

His reply rasps. “Yes.”

Her heartache feels like it bleeds out of her, leaving nothing behind. She is left calm, sore- and dry-eyed, emotionless. Numb. Empty. She wonders if she’ll ever feel anything real again.

“Ar lath ma, arasha,” she tells him.

It is the first time she has ever said she loved him. Before Crestwood, she remembers, she had thought of different ways to tell him, different moments—but she had always been too much a coward to tell him. It had never seemed like the right time. Now…

Now, she feels nothing, but her memories are warm, happy, full of love and laughter. She had loved him, when her heart had not been a void. Now, she no longer trusts him, and the foundation of what they’d had is broken, perhaps forever.

Now, she is empty, and there is no reason to withhold her confession.

Solas’s breath hitches, and she hears him swallow. “I am not certain that endearment is applicable any longer,” he whispers. She thinks it might be his attempt at a joke, but she doesn’t smile, or laugh.

“Ar lath ma, arasha,” she repeats.

It is a long time before Solas speaks. “Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

Their confessions are both hushed whispers, barely louder than the hiss of candles.

 _Treat him as you always have,_ she remembers Deshanna saying, _but do not trust him._

She is tired. She is so tired.

She lets her hand fall, lets herself sit up. “I have work to do,” she says, and out of the corner of her eye she watches Solas rise to his feet.

“Of course. I will take my leave, then. Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

She closes her eyes. “Wait,” she says, standing up. Solas folds his hands behind his back, expression shifting into cool neutrality, and she exhales, hard. She takes a step closer, watching his swallow, how his gaze maps out her face before shifting to look over her shoulder.

She touches his cheek, resting her other hand on the back of his neck, pulling him toward her. He goes unresisting as she lifts herself up onto the tips of her toes and presses her forehead against his. She squeezes her eyes shut, listening to his breaths, feeling his heartbeat.

She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, suspended in stillness. But eventually she lowers herself, puts her arms back at her sides, and Solas steps back.

“Goodnight,” she whispers, unable to look at him. He tilts his head.

He leaves, and she is once again alone.

She looks at the pile of paperwork that sits in front of her. Treaties to read over, reports to catch up on, alliance proposals to consider, more and more and more. She doesn’t know where to start. That knowledge is overwhelming; she sits back in her chair, running a hand over her face, taking several deep breaths.

Finally, she stands up and goes to bed.

She’ll do the work tomorrow.

Right now, she wants to sleep and never wake up.


	7. tarasyl'an tel'as ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention, I've gotten more fanart of Ariala since this was last updated!! It's beautiful and I am so happy with her, please check out and support the artist!! ❤
> 
>  
> 
> [FANART!](http://cedarmoons.tumblr.com/post/177678120012/ib-gomes-those-beauties-belong-to-cedarmoons)

She dreams of Corypheus’s dragon that night. The Well shows it to her, taking from both her memories and her nightmares—she dreams of it at Adamant, at Haven, at the Emprise. It had never been at the Emprise, at least not while Ariala was there, but that didn’t stop her nightmares from featuring it anyway. Sometimes, she was never rescued from that room under Suledin Keep. Sometimes she was consumed by the red lyrium; sometimes Corypheus ripped her apart with her magic; sometimes she was eaten by the dragon.

Her left arm aches.

 _It is corrupted,_ the Well whispers to her, and with a jolt she realizes it’s speaking to her in Elvhen. She’s still processing the fact that she can understand the voices when the Well shows her a vision of a shrine—an altar draped in gold and emerald linens, and a towering statue of a winged, masked woman. The crystal dome built around the shrine sends a rainbow of light across the marble floor. _This one serves the Mother;_ the Well whispers. _Wake it._

The other voices splinter off, echoing the last two words— _wake it, wake it, wake it._

“Okay,” she says, rubbing her left arm—it hurts, now, but there’s nothing wrong with it. She looks back at the shrine, moving to stand before the altar. Mythal’s masked face stares down at her. She takes a deep breath, lifts her left hand toward the statue. “Aneth ara, Mother.”

The dome breaks apart at her greeting, a shower of glittering, rainbow-colored glass falling in slow motion. Ariala watches it fall, fascinated, her hand still suspended in air. There are threads of green woven underneath her skin, concentrated in the center of her palm, shining through the back of her hand.

She turns her wrist, palm facing her, and the flare of green light blinds her.

 _Wake up,_ one soft voice tells her. It sounds like Cole, oddly enough. _Ariala, wake up._

She opens her eyes to agony, to flickering green light piercing the night’s stillness. Rolling over onto her stomach, she buries her face into her pillow, muffling her scream as another white-hot pulse of magic spreads down her wrist in shooting bolts of pain. She grips her palm with her right hand, hoping the pressure will alleviate the agony, but it only worsens.

She writhes, sobbing, and moves her head so her forehead is propped against the pillow. She watches the Anchor’s deep emerald flares into a brighter shade of green, sparks of magic spitting out of the gash in her palm. She watches the spiderwebs around the Anchor pulse and widen, and her hand tightens around her left wrist until her arms are shaking.

Black spots swarm her vision. She can barely breathe, and her mouth is full of her own blood from her bitten tongue, her bitten cheek. _Fuck_ , she thinks, tears leaking from the inner corners of her eyes, running down the bridge of her nose.

Someone touches her back. “He’s coming,” Cole says. “Your name is ash in his mouth.”

She seizes, gasping for breath as another pulse of magic forces the Anchor wider, sending waves of pain down her wrist. She distantly hears the door open, hears someone swear, and then Solas is sitting in front of her, pulling her up into a sitting position. Someone sits behind her, their hands resting on her shoulders. Ariala squeezes her eyes shut, wrist shaking. She bites her lip to muffle her scream.

“Just a little longer,” he says. “Dorian, are you watching?”

“Yes,” Dorian says, and Ariala cannot stop her sob. He kisses her shoulder. “Hold on, amica.”

Solas takes her hand in his, emerald light spilling over his features, sharpening them and casting shadows under his cheeks. His gaze flicks up to hers, and then he twists his left hand, squeezing it into a fist. The Anchor’s magic crackles, then _snaps_ , and the sudden absence of pain leaves her gasping.

She sags against Dorian, tears running silent down her cheeks. No one says anything until Dorian whispers, “Kaffas.”

Ariala sniffles, wiping at her face with her wrist, pressing it under her running nose.

“How long will this happen to her?” Dorian asks.

“Until it consumes her,” Solas says, bleakly.

Dorian shakes his head. “Unacceptable. There must be _something_ —”

“Short of removing the Anchor from her hand, which even Corypheus did not have the power to do, there is nothing,” Solas snaps. “Do you think I have not considered this? There is _nothing._ We can only siphon off its power and impede the decay.”

“Look at it, Solas,” Dorian replies. “Siphoning it only encourages it to grow faster.”

“What?” Ariala asks. Solas closes his eyes, clenching his jaw.

Dorian’s hands flex on her shoulders. “You didn’t tell her?” he asks, voice low and dangerous. Solas stands up and turns away, clasping his hands behind his back. Ariala can only look at him. “You _didn’t tell her?_ ”

“Would you rather she writhe in agony for hours, until the attack has passed?” Solas asks, voice shaking. “Would you rather subject her to unimaginable pain—”

“I would _rather_ —” Dorian starts.

“Hey! I’m right here,” Ariala interjects, silencing them both. She sits up, and Dorian’s hands fall away. The ghost of pain trembles up her wrist, making her wince and flex her left hand. “What was he talking about, Solas?”

“Dorian exaggerates, as usual,” Solas says, ignoring Dorian’s scoff. “The Anchor is a self-producing power source, meant for great feats of magic. When we siphon it, as Dorian said, it encourages the Anchor to produce more power at a quicker rate. But there is no reason for alarm. It is an incremental increase.”

“Incremental increases that build upon each other,” Dorian says. “If the power regenerates twice as fast the first time, it will regenerate three times faster the second time it is siphoned, and so on, which in turn hastens and encourages the Anchor’s deterioration!”

“ _What?_ ” Ariala says.

“Three times an insignificant decimal—” Solas starts, turning around to face them again.

“Is _still three times more than before.”_ Dorian stands up. “Where are the notes you promised me, Solas?”

“You will have them by this afternoon.”

“I had _better_ —”

Ariala looks at the Anchor, now a dull green scar nestled in the palm of her hand. “Dorian,” she says, interrupting the men’s argument, “I’ve told Solas and I want to tell you, too. This is how I want it written down: ‘Here lies Ariala Lavellan, eaten alive by her own magic hand.’ Make sure Varric knows.”

 _“Enough jesting about your death!”_ Solas snaps. She blinks, shocked, and meets his gaze. In this light, his eyes are dark, dark grey, and irritation is nestled in the lines at the corners of his eyes. His shoulders are straight, body so rigid he is nearly trembling.

She can’t think of anything to say to that. They watch each other in silence, Ariala taken aback, Solas’s jaw clenched. After several long moments, she looks down at her hands, splayed in her lap.

“Tell him yourself,” Dorian finally says, voice thick. He exhales harshly, running a hand over his face, then looks at her. “You are one of my closest friends, Ariala Lavellan. I shall be _terribly_ cross with you if you die.”

Ariala stands up and hugs him. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her to him, tightening his hold on her, his cheek resting atop her head. After a moment, he pulls away, kissing her cheek. A lump wells in her throat. She looks up at him and he smiles, though it looks forced. He pats her arm and takes a step back. Behind him, the frosted window glass is blushed pink with the dawn.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says, sitting once more on the bed. “Thank you both for your help.”

“Yes, well.” Dorian sighs. “I imagine you have much to get done. We’ll leave you in peace, then. If anything—if your hand—you know where to find us.” He looks at Solas. “Well, my glabrous friend, I find myself in possession of far more hours of the day than usual. Why don’t we go down to the rotunda and you can give me your notes, hm?”

Solas nods, and after another look at Ariala, he disappears downstairs. She is left alone in the silence and the dawn, with sunlight creeping across the floor, and an ache in her hand. She looks at the scar in her hand, the Anchor now a dim glow than a sputtering burst of emerald light, and massages her palm until the ache goes away.

Finally she looks up, her gaze landing on the bell an arm’s reach from the bed. Biting her lip, she stands up and rings it. As she waits for Alys, she finally gathers up the dozens of Orlesian dresses she had tossed onto the floor and puts them in the boxes that had been left behind at the foot of her bed. She’ll talk to Josephine, ask her to sell them and put the funds in her personal account, and the dresses will be out of her hair.

It is small, and her fatigue has only worsened, but it is something. She’s finally been productive.

 _Baby steps,_ she reminds herself.

She goes to her desk, sifting through the reports and papers until she finds a few that are only a handful of paragraphs long. One of them is from Leliana, warning her of an Orlesian scholar visiting the castle and his questionable past publications, and the rest are status updates from the forts across southern Thedas.

“You called, Your Worship?”

Ariala looks up to see Alys, looking far less flustered than yesterday, standing at the top of the staircase. She exhales hard, lowering the report on Caer Bronach to the desk. “Yes,” she says, with a sigh. “Um. How well can you braid?”

“Oh,” Alys says, blinking, “probably I’m fair decent? My mum taught me, when I was a wee girl, yeah? And when the sweats took her, I’d braid my sis’s hair instead.”

Ariala nods, gnawing the inside of her cheek. “Could you braid mine? I have a specific style in mind, and it’s hard to do on my own.”

Alys brightens. “Yeah, ’course!”

Ariala half-smiles, feeling empty, and pulls up a low-backed chair in front of the mirror atop her dresser. Alys is beaming as she finds Ariala’s hairbrush and black ribbon ties, brushing out her hair. As she works, Ariala does her best to explain the style of Deshanna’s braids, the two braids at the temples and the two behind the ear, and the complicated knot that they form together at the back of the head.

It takes Alys several long minutes. Ariala watches their reflections in the mirror, knows she should say something to fill the silence, but she doesn’t have the energy. Once, she would have been enthusiastic to talk to Alys, and learn more about her—her mother, her sister, why she’s in Skyhold.

She’d done the same with several soldiers, in the early days, when they were still moving into Skyhold. She’d wanted to show them that she wasn’t the untouchable Herald they were (and still are) proclaiming her to be; she’d wanted to show them that she was just as confused and uncertain as they were.

But now she is listless, and she has no energy, so she settles for staring at her own reflection.

At least she’d taken a bath. At least she doesn’t look like a complete disaster.

“Like this, Your Worship?” Alys finally asks, holding up a small looking-glass behind her head, so Ariala can examine the style. She had arranged her hair so two long strands rest over her shoulders, while the rest trails down her back. The braids are more twists than true braids, their curves softer, gentler. The four braids combine to form a sort of ponytail, knotted at the nape of her neck, rather than an individual braid.

It is pretty, but it looks nothing like how her grandmother had worn her hair. Nothing like the style she’d spent hours perfecting for her grandmother’s burial. Nothing like a Keeper’s braids, or even like a Dalish style.

Ariala presses her lips together, trying to fight the disappointment curdling sour in her belly, but Alys sees it anyway and her face falls. “I’m sorry, Your Worship, I can try again…”

“No,” Ariala says, glancing away from the looking glass. “No, Alys, it’s fine. I did a bad job of explaining them anyway.”

“Your Worship—”

“Alys,” she says, her voice betraying her impatience. “I said it was _fine_. You’re dismissed.”

Alys, looking heartbroken, makes a hasty retreat. Ariala stares at her reflection in the mirror atop the dresser, her gaze tracing the branching lines of her vallaslin. After a moment, she shakes her head and raises her hands to run them through her hair, undoing the work Alys had done. She pulls her hair back and twists it, tying it into a bun at the back of her head. Loose strands come free immediately, framing her face, and she looks just as messy as she had this morning.

Gods. So much for looking nice today. It’ll have to be her usual getup of leathers and tunic and bun for the dignitaries today. She lets out a breath and stands, blinking back inexplicable tears and taking a deep breath.

She has work to do.

She swallows hard and, once she has changed into different clothes so people won’t notice she’d worn the same outfit two days in a row, leaves her chamber and goes into the Great Hall.

There is a clamor the moment she emerges. “Your Worship!” an Orlesian-accented voice cries, and Ariala looks up to see a man—half his face masked, and the other half taken up by a truly hideous mustache—pushing through the crowds to approach her. Some guards stop him, but Ariala nods, and they let him approach her.

He bows, simpering. “It is a great honor to meet you, Your Worship. I am Jacques Puerot, professor of history and anthropology at the University of Orlais.”

Jacques Peurot. Where had she heard that name before?

“What can I do for you, professor?” she asks. His mustache twitches. She doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

“Ah, but I had hope you would ask such a thing of me! I am researching…”

He launches into an explanation, but already she’s only half-listening. She sees Solas emerge from the hallway that leads to the gardens, followed a few minutes later by the ashen-haired elven scout she’d seen in the Undercroft. Solas looks up and sees her; they watch each other, and then Solas ducks his head and disappears into the rotunda.

Weird.

She still needs to talk to him—if they’re going to find that shrine from her dreams, she suspects she’ll need his help.

Peurot is still talking. She glances at him and suddenly remembers where she’d heard his name. It had been in one of Josephine’s reports from last night, telling her he was here to petition for a grant from the Inquisition for some Chantry history research. Leliana had had an addendum that he had written and published anti-elf treatises to stir up sentiment against Celene.

 _He said that elves’ large ears mark them as similar to rabbits_ , Leliana had written, _which means that they are simple prey animals, relying upon base instinct for survival. Thus, they cannot be trusted._

“—hoping I could petition the Inquisition for additional funds—”

Ariala looks at him. “No,” she says.

He sputters, taken aback. “No?” he repeats. “I… I am sorry, Inquisitor, I must’ve misheard you.”

“You didn’t. You will get no funding from the Inquisition.” Ariala tucks her hands behind her back, tilting her head as she looks at him. “You’re a historian, professor, is that correct? Tell me, ten years ago, who saved Ferelden from a Blight?”

“The Hero of Ferelden,” he says, and he makes it sound like a question.

“Who was an elf.”

“Well… yes, I suppose. Though, Your Worship, I must note that among scholarly circles, it is debated whether the supposed Blight of 9:31 Dragon was a _true_ Blight, and not simply an uncommonly large influx of darkspawn.”

“Fair enough,” Ariala says. “Then maybe you can refresh my memory, Doctor Peurot. Who was the Grey Warden who ended the Fourth Blight?”

“Garahel,” Peurot says. Leliana emerges from the rotunda. Ariala looks back to the professor.

“Who was also an elf,” she replies. “If my memory serves me well. I could be wrong. Am I?”

“Ah… no. No, Your Worship is not wrong.” He is nervous, now, his eyes shifting from side to side, taking note of the quiet that has swept the Great Hall. People are starting to watch. Good. Let them watch.

Ariala brushes past them, her hands still clasped behind her back, her shoulders square. She takes a deep breath and unclasps her hands, turning to sit on her throne, fashioned from a dragon’s maw. Peurot is left standing stock-still at the foot of her throne, watching her with wide eyes.

 _I am Dalish,_ she thinks. _Never again will I submit._

“One last question for you, professor,” she says, raising her voice. “Who closed the Breach that threatened to upend the world as we know it?”

“You… you did, Your Worship.”

She leans forward. “And am I not an elf?” she asks.

“Y-yes,” Peurot stammers. “Your Worship… I, ah, I must admit… I do not—I do not know what—what your point might be—”

“Do you not think there might be a _reason_ these saviors of Thedas have all been _elves,_ professor?” Ariala asks. No one says a word; the hall is hers. She leans forward, hands tightening on the armrests fashioned out of dragon teeth. “Think. Use that mind of yours.”

Her mind races as she straightens, sitting back on her throne, crossing her legs at the knee. The hall is deathly silent.

“We elves have a long memory, professor,” she says, softly, when Peurot doesn’t answer. “We remember Andraste’s promise of the Dales for our own homeland. We remember how you drove us out and took our land for your own.” She folds her hands together, looking to the Ferelden dignitary.

“We remember Queen Anora’s promise to give the Hinterlands to the Dalish who helped save Ferelden from the Blight. We remember how she did nothing when human farmers drove them out. We remember Queen Anora’s promise to give representation to the alienage that was devastated during the siege on Denerim. We remember her brutal repression of the alienage’s protests when that promise went unmet.”

The Ferelden dignitary—she can’t think of his name right now, and currently, she doesn’t care—blanches. “Your Worship,” he sputters, “I must protest—”

“Do you deny it?” Ariala asks, not moving from her throne. “Ambassador, do you deny that one can kill an elf in Denerim without any repercussions? Do you deny that the ears of the Hero of Ferelden’s statue in Redcliffe have been docked? Do you deny that the Hinterlands were promised to Clans Sabrae and Dathan before human farmers, _Fereldens,_ drove them out and forced them to flee to Kirkwall, where they were slaughtered by humans?”

Varric leaves the Great Hall, disappearing into the rotunda. She looks back to the Ferelden and tilts her head, heart racing, expression giving away nothing. She feels like she is in Halamshiral again, plotting out every step, every smile, every word. Except this is a thousand times worse. She is on a tightrope between two cliffs, and underneath her is a rushing river that will drown her the moment she falls.

When the Ferelden says nothing, she looks back to Peurot. “Doctor Peurot, you’re a professor of history. Tell me, who betrayed Andraste? Was it Shartan? Or was it Maferath, her human husband?”

“Inquisitor, I am not certain as to—”

“You’re not certain?” Ariala asks, leaning forward. “Truly? Then allow me to enlighten you, Doctor Peurot. Shartan was Andraste’s most valuable ally in the war against Tevinter. He was elven. One of my people. Maferath was the one who betrayed Andraste, and in so doing, betrayed the Maker. All of these betrayals I have mentioned have been committed by _humans._ So I must admit my confusion, Doctor, when I read in your article that you did not believe elves were trustworthy, indeed that we were little more than _prey animals_ , simply because of the shape of our ears.”

Peurot stiffens as he realizes what she is referring to. His laughter bubbles up, nervous, and he looks around at the silent, staring Great Hall. “Your Worship—”

Ariala smiles. “Doctor Peurot, you will not receive any academic funding from the Inquisition, now or ever. Indeed, for a professor of history, I am surprised you did not know the most basic question of Chantry history anyone could ask of you.”

Peurot takes a few steps forward before she nods and a guard stops him, gloved hands resting on his velvet-clad arms. Peurot jerks away, shrugging him off, and laughs again, high and hysterical. “Inquisitor, if you could perhaps let me explain—”

Ariala’s smile widens. “No. You are not welcome at Skyhold, Doctor Peurot, and you never will be again.” She looks to the guard who has grabbed Peurot again, keeping the professor from getting any closer to her throne. “Branwen. Get him out of my castle.”

Branwen nods and escorts Peurot away. Ariala lets out a slow breath, straightening her back to press against the preserved dragon maw behind her. She unclasps her hands and rests them on the teeth that have been fashioned into armrests. She holds her silence, staring out at the crowd gathered before her, meeting several individual gazes before she sees Leliana and Solas staring at her, both standing by Varric’s writing table.

Solas has his hand on his chin, watching her with a faint smile.

Leliana is stone-faced.

“Corypheus’s threat still lingers,” Ariala announces. “As I speak, he cowers in the Emprise du Lion, gathering what little forces he still has left. At any day he may choose to march upon us and lay siege to Skyhold. His biggest threat is his dragon, which is capable of attacking Skyhold where his army is not.”

A gasp runs through the crowd, and several people turn to each other, murmuring. Ariala holds up a hand. “Andraste gave me a vision last night,” she says, and has to clench her jaw to keep a straight face. Once she feels like she isn’t in danger of bursting into laughter or smiling inappropriately, she continues: “I know what I must do to counter the dragon. All of you will be safe in this castle, don’t worry.”

She pauses, then stands. “These are Corypheus’s final days,” she says. “He was the one responsible for the chaos of the Breach, the ruin of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He was the one responsible for the Grey Wardens’ corruption, the fall of the Templars, and the Divine’s death.” She pauses, trying to recall the Divine’s name—her layname had been Dorothea, she knows, but she’d had a different name after her election.

Shit, she can’t remember her name.

_Move on. Don’t let it get awkward. Keep going._

“From the chaos, the Inquisition rose,” she says. “It was not the Chantry that kept you safe. It was not Orlais, or Ferelden, that protected you from the Breach. It was the Inquisition. It was _me._ I survived the Conclave because Andraste saved me. _I_ am her Herald. I was chosen, as the Hero of Ferelden was chosen, as Garahel was chosen, to save Thedas.”

No one speaks. Ariala stares at them.

“We Dalish have long memories,” she finally says, after wracking her mind for something else to say. “We have borne witness to events that changed the course of history. Events that changed the world.” She takes a moment to observe the crowd before her, making note of the people who whisper to each other, the people who leave the room, the people who do nothing.

“The Inquisition will not stand by while history is made,” she says. “When Corypheus falls, we will remain. Andraste will guide me as she has guided me since the Conclave, and I…” she pauses, drumming her fingers on the dragon tooth that is her armrest. After a moment, she stands.

“I will leave this world better than I found it.”

There is a statue of the Hero of Ferelden in Redcliffe; the ears had been docked long ago, the edges worn soft by erosion.

She would not let herself fall to that fate. She would not let herself become a footnote in the tomes of history.

She is Dalish. Never again will she submit.

She descends the stairs, and though her heart is pounding, her legs are solid and steady. She does not falter from her task. The crowd parts for her, forming a channel of space and stone for her to walk upon. Ariala pushes through, heading toward Josephine’s office, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Leliana start to follow her.

Josephine is in her office, wearing Solas’s tunic and jawbone necklace with a pair of knee-length forest-green pants, paired with black stockings and slippers. Her hair is down today, braided over her shoulder, and she is elbow-deep in papers, busy writing something.

Manon, Josephine’s guard, stands by the fireplace, arms crossed over her chest. She nods at Ariala but says nothing.

“You wear the hobo look very well, Josie,” Ariala says. “Better than Solas does.”

“Oh!” Josephine says, looking up. There’s a smear of ink on her cheek. Ariala’s about to point it out, but Josephine stands instead, smiling as she grabs her writing board. “Ariala. Welcome. I did not hear you enter.”

Ariala half-smiles, then crosses the room, leaning on her desk. “I have some tasks for you,” she says.

“Of course. One moment.” Josephine lifts her quill away from the paper, seamlessly grabbing a clean parchment and looking up at her. “What do you need?”

“First, you deserve a raise, so jot that down,” Ariala says. Josephine huffs a laugh, but obliges her. Ariala straightens, tucking her hands behind her back. “Okay, so first off, I want you to—”

“What, exactly, was that?”

“Hold that thought,” Ariala says, and turns around to see Leliana closing Josephine’s office door behind her. She locks it—a precaution taken after the failed assassination attempt several months ago—and faces the three other women in the room. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific?”

“Oh, no. What happened?” Josephine asks, with a long-suffering tone of voice Ariala is intimately familiar with.

“That is precisely the question,” Leliana says, crossing her arms over her chest. Ariala keeps her hands tucked behind her back, pressing her lips together. “Ariala, would you do us all the favor of telling us when, precisely, you converted to Andrastianism?”

“You _what_?” Josephine asks.

“Oh yeah,” Ariala agrees. “I’ve seen the light. I’ve been welcomed into the arms of our lady. I’ve been, uh, burned by that holy fire. Praise the Maker and his holy bride.”

Leliana’s eyes narrow.

She shuts up.

“Shall we reconvene in the War Room?” Josephine asks delicately, with a pointed glance to Manon. Manon salutes her, moving toward the office’s door and standing guard while they all head to the War Room.

Ariala leans on the massive table, examining the different markers. The map looks completely different than when she was last here—a few markers are missing, more have shifted around.

The marker on Wycome is gone.

She turns around, crossing her arms, only to see Leliana leaning against the door.

“What happened,” Leliana says, softly, “is that Ariala has finally embraced the title of Herald of Andraste.”

Josephine’s eyebrows rise, the only indication of her surprise. “I see,” she says, and makes another note on her writing board. “Ah… is there a reason? You have never indicated any belief in the Andrastian faith before, Ari.”

“I want to use the Inquisition to get the Dales back,” Ariala says. “I figured the humans would be more willing to do that if I used Andraste as the excuse, because, well, she _did_ actually promise the Dales to the People. And we’ve done nothing to stop the Herald of Andraste thing, so might as well seal the deal, right?”

Leliana and Josephine look at each other. “I see,” Josephine says again, the words much, much more drawn out: _I… seeeee._

“How long do you think it would take?”

“To reclaim the Dales for the elves?” Josephine asks, looking back at her. Ariala nods. “Well. I cannot say, truly. There are so many factors…”

“Give me a rough estimate,” Ariala says.

“The most peaceful path,” Josephine replies, after a long pause, “presuming Celene and Briala are still working together, and Celene is favorable to this idea? Thirty years.”

“Thirty _years!_ Uh, no way, not good enough. What if the Divine is on my side?”

“Ah,” Leliana says, expression clearing.

“That _is_ with a friendly Divine,” Josephine says.

“With Cassandra,” Leliana says. “But I can make it twenty.” She gives Ariala a meaningful look. “We may as well have this conversation now. I already intend to do much for the elves, should I be chosen to succeed Divine Justinia.”

Justinia. That had been the name. _Shite._

“Like what?” Ariala asks.

“Reinstating the Canticle of Shartan, for one,” Leliana says. “Opening the clergy to people of all races. There was a dwarf in Orzammar who wished to create a Chantry in Orzammar, and the Warden…” she sighs, trailing off. “It does not matter. My goal still stands, and is still attainable.”

“Is that it?” Ariala asks, unimpressed.

“Ari, it is difficult to overemphasize how drastic these reforms would be,” Josephine begins.

“Those are literally the _bare minimum_.”

“I agree, Inquisitor,” Leliana says. “The Chantry has lost its way. But that is not all I intend, should I succeed the Sunburst Throne. I intend to dissolve the Circle of Magi—I have seen its abuses firsthand, in Ferelden and in Kirkwall. Your alliance with them has proven to me that they are capable of governing themselves; I will let them decide what they wish to do with themselves.”

“Will you rebuild the Templars?” Ariala asks.

“No. The Order is fractured, and you have ensured the Seekers will remain extinct. A Chantry that must rule through fear and the sword is not one that deserves to remain. If the Chantry wishes to survive, it must change.”

Ariala nods. “So, what about those clerics who hate the Inquisition? I can’t imagine they’d like these changes. What will you do about them?”

Leliana’s smile is small and cold. “What I must.”

“By which she means she will use diplomacy,” Josephine says, with a glare toward Leliana, who only inclines her head, keeping her gaze on Ariala. After a moment of silence, Josephine says, “Ariala, the Grand Clerics have been in Val Royeaux for months and have not yet reached a consensus. So many were lost in the Conclave, no one has enough influence to secure unanimous support. Only recently were Leliana, Cassandra and even Madame de Fer’s names suggested. If you would write in support of one of them…”

“You’ll support the Dales being returned to the elves?” Ariala asks.

“I made a promise to an old friend, long ago,” Leliana says, inclining her head again. “And yours is a worthy cause, my friend. You have helped so many of us in our dire need—it is only right we return the favor.”

Her chest feels a little tight. She looks away, swallowing, then nods. “I need to speak with Josie alone,” she says. Leliana spends a few moments looking between them, then nods and leaves the War Room. Ariala stares at the mark on the map labelled _Wycome._

Once Leliana is gone, Ariala takes an unused metal marker—one of dozens resembling the eye of the Inquisition—and fiddles with it, pressing her lips together before taking a deep breath and looking up at Josephine. “Do you think it’ll work?” she asks. “The whole, uh, Andrastian conversion?” She pauses. “I probably should’ve discussed that with you first.”

Josephine pauses, resting her writing board on the oak table. “That would have been my recommendation,” she says, delicately. Ariala winces. “I fear few will see your conversion as genuine. Most will likely consider it as at best a power play—”

 _Which it is_ , Ariala thinks.

“—or at worst, blasphemy. Leliana was not exaggerating; the Chantry currently does not consider elves or dwarves to be ‘true’ children of the Maker, which is a thin line to declaring them non-persons, which is why allowing them into the clergy would be such a drastic reform.” She hesitates, sighing. “Truthfully, Ari, I do not think you needed the conversion at all.”

“Oh, great.”

“Indeed. Your alliance with Celene and Briala is certainly strong enough, at least for now—Orlais does not nearly care so much about your actions in the Free Marches as Ferelden does. Celene likely would have been willing to give you the Dales—”

“ _Return_ the Dales,” Ariala corrects.

“Return the Dales,” Josephine amends. “And that is not to speak of what our Dalish allies might think, once they hear this news.”

“Leave the Dalish to me.” Ariala swallows, looking up. “So that whole conversion speech was probably a mistake, is what you’re telling me?”

“I am saying you have shown your hand,” Josephine replies. “Now there is nothing to do but play it as well as you can.”

Great. That’s a yes. _Great._

It is a long time before Ariala replies, swallowing hard.

“Will you help me?” she finally asks. “Help me play my hand the best I can?”

“Ariala,” Josephine says, with a gentle smile, “that is my _job_.”

Ariala laughs, roughly, pressing her hand into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I’m sorry I snapped at you yesterday. I’m sorry I haven’t been myself since I got back. Today will be productive, I promise, if you wanna get Cullen or Leliana and have a War Table meeting to brief me or something, I can do that, I’m sorry I haven’t been doing anything lately and I don’t do anything but make your job harder—”

She isn’t expecting the hug, but she welcomes it all the same, burying her face into Josephine’s shoulder. She smells a little like lavender, a little like the paints Solas mixes in the rotunda, and that is what makes her rest her cheek on Josephine’s collar, blinking back a fresh wave of tears.

“Oh, Ari,” Josephine soothes, arms tight around her, and Ariala squeezes her eyes shut. “Ari, amica, it’s all right. You’re all right.”

“I’m gonna get tears on your shirt,” she warns.

“It is Solas’s tunic—cry away.” Ariala laughs, and she feels Josephine’s slight chuckle, vibrating under her cheek. She does not let go of her until Ariala shifts, and then offers a slight smile as Ariala turns away, wiping at the damp skin under her eyes. “I am sorry you are not feeling yourself. Please, if you ever need to talk, know I am here for you. Whatever you need.”

“You’re definitely getting a raise,” Ariala croaks, and Josephine laughs again.

“I would very much appreciate that,” she says, dryly, and Ariala’s laugh bubbles out of her, hysterical and double-edged. She wipes harder at her eyes, sniffing, and nods. Josephine hugs her again, and after she pulls away she lifts her writing board. “Now, I believe you had some tasks for me?”

— ✦ —

Ariala takes a deep breath and pushes open the door to the stables. Light spills over shadow, and she watches several horses lift their heads, hanging out of their stalls. Eirlana whickers at the sight of her, and Syl whinnies. She goes to Syl first, holding out her apple, which he eats happily, lipping at her palm as he eats. She feeds an apple to Eirlana, too, stroking the white stripe between her liquid black eyes.

“How do you have better eyelashes than I do?” she says. Eirlana chuffs, not looking away from the apple. Once she finishes the apple, Ariala tosses it through the window and goes to the open corner around the stalls. This had originally been the tack room, which had been moved after they’d built an expansion for the stables, to accommodate the influx of new mounts. Rainier had taken over the space afterward.

A griffin rocking chair is still on Rainier’s worktable, fully carved but not painted. It had been meant for the children living in Skyhold, Ariala recalls, a lump welling in her throat. She approaches the carving, running her fingers over smooth, sanded wood, lost in her own thoughts.

“He was glad to go,” Cole says, behind her. “He thought he deserved it.”

Despite herself, she startles, hand going instinctively to her hip. But there is no knife there, and Cole is no threat. “Didn’t Varric teach you about letting yourself be heard?” she asks, turning around. Cole stands in the stable doorway, the brim of his hat pulled low, concealing his face. She approaches him, lifting the brim so she can see his face. “Not scaring people?”

Cole looks confused. “But I don’t need that anymore.”

She sighs and lets it go. After a moment of silence, she says, quietly, “ _Did_ he deserve it?”

“You thought so.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Cole stares at her. “I don’t have the words,” he says. “Words are a web, weaving, weaving, weaving—must be perfect. Comfort knows the best words, _you are young still, Compassion_. I’m sorry.”

“So that’s a no.”

“I didn’t say that.” Cole hasn’t blinked since she’d lifted the brim of his hat. “You thought he deserved it, but you’ve changed, gnawing, gripping guilt, _it’s my fault_.” Her breath catches. Cole looks up. “Soft, small, shy. They will let you pet them.”

“What?” she asks, but he’s vanished. “Cole!”

The trapdoor to the stables’ hayloft in the corner opens, a rope ladder falling down.

Ariala stares at it, then shakes her head and grabs it. The ladder twists oddly underneath her feet, and several times she thinks the rope will snap and give way under her weight, but it doesn’t. Once her head breaches the hayloft entrance, her eyes adjusting to dark and dust, she sees a pale hand clad in fingerless gloves.

She takes Cole’s hand and lifts herself up, pulling herself out of the hole and into the loft. She inhales once and sneezes, eyes watering when she sees the bales of hay and straw. Cole is now across the attic, sitting cross-legged, his hat concealing his face. He holds a kitten in his hands. Several other kittens are climbing on his legs, sitting in his lap, clinging to his arms. The mother sits a foot away, tail curled over her paws, watching everything with keen yellow eyes.

Cole lifts his head, and she sees his eyes, grey in the dark. The mother looks at her as well, tail swishing. “You can come closer,” Cole says. “She trusts you. They do, too.”

Ariala offers a small smile and sits next to him. He holds out his hands, and she takes a mewling black kitten from him, depositing it in her lap. It meows as she strokes it, but soon falls silent in favor of kneading her pants. Ariala looks up to see Cole watching her, his hat concealing his eyes but not his smile. After a moment, she reaches out and grabs his hat, taking it off.

The hat’s absence somehow makes his gaze on her all the keener. She wonders if he can feel the weight that presses down on her chest, her shoulders, her eyelids.

“Yes,” he says, then looks down at the kitten he’d scooped up. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter, Cole,” she says. Right now, in the darkness of the attic, so like the warm embrace of night, she cannot keep the exhaustion from her voice. She might be able to fall asleep right here in the dust and hay, head on Cole’s lap, kittens clawing their way up her body like the black one is doing now. With a wince, she gently pulls it from her ribs and sets it back down in her lap.

“I thought the card game might help,” Cole tells her.

“It did,” she says. It’s not completely a lie. She had smiled more last night than she has the past two months—than she has since Crestwood. Since her grandmother’s letter. But now that happiness is gone, and the emptiness and apathy that have devoured everything she’s ever felt or loved have returned stronger than before. “It did help. A little.”

“But not enough.”

She shakes her head. There’s no point in denying it. “I haven’t,” she starts, then catches herself, thinking of the best way to give voice to the emptiness in the center of her chest. “I feel…”

“Buried,” Cole says. “Buried, burrowed, broken.” She nods. He says, “You’re not broken. I wish you could see the hole you’d leave behind. It would very big.”

Tears inexplicably prick her eyes. The kitten is climbing up her arm again. She gently extricates it, blinking her tears back. The kitten mewls, so she pets it, running her fingers over soft fur. It’s more comforting than she’d thought it would be. She holds the kitten close to her chest, ignoring how it starts gnawing on her finger.

“Do you think I have asala-taar?” Ariala asks. “Like what Bull said?”

“Yes,” Cole says. Her heart sinks, and she closes her eyes.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she finally says. “I don’t care about _anything_ , I—I just want to sleep all the time, I’m—I’m so _tired_ , Cole. I want to be who I was. I want the old me back.”

Cole leans forward, pressing his forehead to hers. She closes her eyes, drawing strength from his closeness. He smells like straw and fur and dust, and she wrinkles her nose, fighting a sneeze. She fails, turning her head and sneezing into the crook of her elbow, once, twice, three times.

After she can breathe again, he says, “The… old you?”

“Yeah,” Ariala says.

“But there isn’t an _old_ you. There’s just _you._ ”

She had thought his answer would bring relief, but the weight on her chest only grows heavier. Ariala shakes her head. “What if you’re wrong? What if all that’s left is… this void inside me? What if I don’t know who I am anymore?”

“Then you will learn again,” Cole says. “You will be you.”

His words are shards of glass in her lungs. Eyes watering, she looks down at the kitten in her lap, who is now sitting placid and purring, content to be stroked over and over, for now.

 _Then you will learn again_.

As if it is that simple. As if she hasn’t been lost in the woods since she got her grandmother’s letter. As if she hasn’t been wandering in a void that has swallowed her heart and is consuming her soul. As if she has no northern star to guide her back to the hearthlights of home—

Cole presses his forehead to hers, and her breath catches. Her mind goes blissfully blank and she closes her eyes, leaning against him. He breathes, and she breathes with him, matching his slow, deep inhales and his long exhales. She feels her heartbeat slow down, feels her breaths steady.

“You’re your own light,” Cole says. “Bright, blinding, like counting birds against the sun.”

“You read my mind,” she jokes, though the jest feels flat, hollow. The kitten squirms out of her hands to chase after a sibling through the hayloft; she lets him go.

“I try not to,” he replies, and she lets her smile fall. “Varric says it’s rude. _Thoughts are private, Kid._ ” He perfectly mimics the cadence of Varric’s voice, and lifts his head, clouded eyes unseeing yet looking right at her. “He still calls me that, though he doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t think I’m Kid anymore.”

“You’re Cole,” Ariala says. “That’s all you need to be.”

“I am Compassion,” Cole replies. “But I like Cole, still.”

“Will you come with me?” she asks, after several long minutes of silence spent playing with the barn kittens. “To the altar from my dreams?”

“Yes,” Cole says. “You should ask Solas, too. He will want to come.”

Ariala sighs. “Of course he will.”

“He wants to see if she still lives. He has many plans.”

Ariala stills. “Solas has plans? For Mythal?”

Cole hums in thought, tilting his head. “I… don’t think he wants me to tell you,” he says, finally. “He thinks you would be _very_ upset.”

Oh, great.

Fucking _perfect._

“He doesn’t want to hurt anyone!” Cole is quick to assure her, even as she sighs and begins to maneuver the kittens crawling over her into his lap. His hand, slightly too cold, grabs her wrist. “He isn’t that kind of wolf!”

“I don’t know what that means,” Ariala says, “but I have _had_ it with him.”

 _I would like to see the orb recovered first,_ Solas had told her. He hadn’t told her what he wanted to do with such a thing—an artifact meant to hold the power of _gods_ —but she doesn’t trust him, and Cole’s revelations have done nothing to reassure her.

“Please don’t go,” Cole says. “You promised we would talk!”

“We did talk,” Ariala says, voice cold, and tugs her hand free.

“You are cruel when you are angry,” Cole tells her, very softly.

Ariala flinches, eyes shutting for a moment and fighting down the ache in her heart. Tears prick her eyes and she looks at the ceiling, blinking rapidly before taking a deep breath and looking at Cole.

“All I wanted,” she tells him, voice rising to nearly a shout, “was for him to _trust me!_ ”

Cole watches her, a general aura of unease manifesting in his movements—twitches in his hands, a frown curling his lips, lank blond hair falling into his eyes. Ariala stares at him, a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes, then shakes her head.

“All I wanted was his trust,” she says, again, quieter.

She goes downstairs, and Cole does not stop her.

— ✦ —

She finds Bull in the tavern, right where he always is, a mug in his hand and his eye roving over the tavern as he chats with Krem. He straightens when he sees her, and she nods to the Chargers when she enters their section of the tavern.

“Hey, boss.”

“Hi, Bull. We need to—can we talk, alone?” she says, eyeing the Chargers. Dalish and Skinner are the only other Chargers in the area besides Krem; Skinner’s arm is draped casually over Dalish’s shoulders, but Dalish’s eyes are locked on Ariala.

“Sure, I know a place.” He gets to his feet with a soft grunt. “Have you eaten yet, boss?”

Ariala opens her mouth to say _yes,_ but catches herself. She can’t remember the last time she’d ate; yesterday? At the party? No, hadn’t she had something this morning? Or had that breakfast been two days ago?

“I don’t know,” she admits, feeling her cheeks heat.

“Okay. How about I get some lunch from Tabot, we eat, and then we can have our talk? That sound okay?”

Ariala swallows and nods. Bull claps her on the shoulder, and once he is gone, Dalish lifts her head.

“Lethallan, will you sit with me a moment?” she calls, leaning over to pat the other side of the table she sits at, and Ariala’s throat closes at her use of Elvhen. After a moment, she nods and slides into the wooden booth, tucked behind the wall Maryden sits before, singing softly as she strums her lute.

Dalish watches her for a moment, then leans forward and takes her hand in hers. “Ir abelas, lethallan,” she says, and Ariala’s expression crumples. She looks away, covering her mouth with her trembling hand, swallowing hard as she fights the sudden surge of tears.

“Ir abelas,” Dalish says again, squeezing her hand. “I’ve been talking to a bunch of the other Dalish folk in the Inquisition, and if you need anything from us—anything at all—you just say the word. We’re here for you, lethallan. It’s not an easy thing, losing one’s clan.”

Ariala squeezes her eyes shut and breathes, fingers flexing over her mouth. She will not break down in front of all these people. She will _not._ She’s stronger than that. She has to be stronger than that.

“Thank you,” she finally rasps, once she feels that she will not lose her control. Dalish offers her a small smile.

“Lavellan folk held vigils, didn’t they?” she asks. “My clan danced, and I know Loranil’s threw feasts and gave portions of their food for the spirits that were watching. We can do both, if you like. You just say the word.”

Ariala nods. “I would like that,” she says, and suddenly remembers—the safehouse. In Lydes. With the supplies. She leans forward, looking at Dalish and Skinner both, and looks over to where Krem is sitting atop his chair, neck craned to stare at Marian. She looks back to Dalish. “How well do you know the safehouse network in Orlais?”

“Our People’s?”  Ariala nods. Dalish exhales, exchanging a look with Skinner. “Oh, not well at all. I can probably dispel the wards and whatsuch, though. Replace them easily enough.”

“Good. Okay. Take Loranil with you, then, he’s one of Cullen’s agents but he’s from a clan in the Dales. I sent a bunch of stuff from my clan to Lydes. If you can put the supplies in a safehouse, so a clan can use them later, I would appreciate it.”

“Is this a task for all the Chargers?” Skinner asks. “Or just Dalish and Loranil?”

Ariala watches her, then nods. “It can be for the Chargers. Krem, can you come over here?”

He does, clambering off the chair, exhaling and smiling wide when he reaches their booth, sliding in beside her. “What can I do for ya, Your Worship?”

Ariala smiles, and explains mostly everything, leaving out details of placing the supplies in a Dalish safehouse. Instead, she explains that Dalish and Loranil will know what to do after retrieving the supplies from Lydes. “And I’ll make sure a letter is sent so they know to expect you,” she promises.

Krem nods. “Sounds easy enough. When do you want us to head out?”

“As soon as you can,” she says.

Skinner exhales, scooting out of the booth and stretching. “That’ll be tonight, then,” she says. “A’right, I’ll start rounding them up.”

Krem also stands, leaving her with a cheerful “Your Worship,” but Dalish lingers, watching her.

“You’ll think about my offer?” Dalish asks.

Ariala nods, forcing herself to meet Dalish’s pale gaze, framed by the green lines of Dirthamen’s raven. Dalish crosses her arms, leaning forward, and drops her voice low. “I’ve not known the pain of losing a clan,” she whispers. “I left for their safety. But if you ever need anything from us, lethallan, you just say the word, aye? We Dalish stick together. We’re all mourning with you.”

Ariala wonders if she’s heard the news of her apparent conversion yet. But instead of mentioning it, she nods, stretching out a hand and clasping her forearm. “Thank you, Dalish,” she says. “I mean it. I will probably take you up on it.”

Dalish nods, then smirks.

“Haleira,” she says, with a wink. “You can call me Haleira.”

Ariala smiles, and then movement catches her eye. She looks up to see Bull holding a tray full of food—chicken and broth, mostly, and some bread and wine—and looking at her. He tilts his head, slightly, and Ariala stands. “Good talking to you, lethallan,” she calls. Dalish salutes her, thumping her fist against her breast, then gets up and follows Krem and Skinner out of the tavern.

“You wanna talk here, or somewhere more quiet?” Bull asks.

“Quiet,” she says. “I don’t like that this is out in the open.”

“Yeah, me neither. I know a place.”

Bull starts walking, and she follows. Despite herself, she finds her gaze roaming over his naked back, charting the pale scars that stand out against deep grey skin, the curves of muscle in his shoulders and arms. She ends up staring at his forearms before shaking her head and joining his side.

Bull takes her to a bedroom built into one of the many towers of the fortress; she remembers seeing the room when they had first come to Skyhold, two years ago—the wood half-rotted, the bed a broken mess of linen and wood, drapes fluttering in the wind. Now, completely refurbished, a made bed built to fit the Iron Bull sits in the center. It’s economical, only a bed and a dresser and an end table.

She doesn’t see much in the way of personal knick-knacks, not like Dorian has his cosmetics and toiletries and books cluttered over all the surfaces in his room, or Josephine has her dolls lovingly arranged atop her armoire.

Bull sits down with a grunt, then pats the place beside him. Ariala sprawls over his bed as he begins unloading the two plates and cutlery, filling a plate with food and handing it off to her. She sits up, back against the headboard, and pokes at her food before saying, “What do you think of Solas?”

“Smart,” Bull says, immediately, in the process of filling his own plate with chicken and a small bowl of stew. “Too smart for his own good. I wish Cabot used some fuckin’ _seasoning_. Anyway, Solas’s hiding something, but you knew that already, or you wouldn’t be asking.”

Ariala swallows. “What were your first impressions, back in Haven?”

“He had no reason to be there,” Bull replies, shrugging. He saws off a piece of chicken with a knife that seems absurdly small for his hand. After he’s chewed and swallowed, he says, “All of us were at Haven for a reason. You wanted to spy on the Conclave. Cass wanted Varric to tell the Divine about Kirkwall. Josephine was there because Leliana and Cassandra knew the Inquisition was a backup plan if the Conclave failed, and Leliana wanted Josie at Haven to smooth ruffled feathers.”

“Right,” Ariala murmurs, dipping a chunk of bread in her broth and chewing it. The frustration and anger that had propelled her from the stables is gone, and she is empty once again. She stares at her plate, listless, and closes her eyes when Bull keeps talking.

“Right. Solas was just… _there_. You think an apostate would want to be near the Conclave? No. He’d want to be as far away as fuckin’ possible, if he was a _normal_ apostate. But he’s not. He talked to Rainier about seeing war, he gave Sera advice on how to use the Jennies to _destabilize the nobility_ , which wasn’t bad advice, by the way. But regime change isn’t something a hobo interested only in his own self-preservation would be thinking about.”

“You saw all of this right away,” Ariala says, voice rough.

 _Stupid,_ she thinks. _I’m so fucking stupid._

“Not right away, but the little things added up. It’s the Ben-Hassrath training, boss. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t notice it too. Eat the chicken, it’s pretty good, if you like your meat bland.”

She eats the breaded chicken. Bull makes an approving sound and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “And that wasn’t even with all the Fade bullshit. Now that—that I can’t prove, but I don’t buy his story of learning everything in the Fade.”

“That’s a lie, too,” she says, dully. “He’s lied about everything.”

“Huh. Doesn’t surprise me.” Bull pauses. “You okay, boss?”

Ariala barks a laugh, stabbing her chicken with her fork. “No,” she says, and her next words are through angry mid-chews. “No, I’m really not. I’m a _fucking idiot_ is what I am. All he had to do was call me graceful _once_ and I fell for his stupid voice and his stupid eyes and his stupid kindnesses, and he’s lied about _everything_ , but I’m still in love with him because I’m a worthless useless gods-damned _moron_ who can’t do anything right—”

“ _Hey._ ”

The snap in Bull’s tone makes her look at him, and she stills under the weight of his glare. “I said I wasn’t here for that shit,” he says, low and deliberate. “Don’t make me repeat myself. You’re not stupid, Ariala, and you’re not worthless, or useless. Got it?”

_I wish you could see the hole you’d leave behind._

_Stop jesting about your death!_

Ariala’s throat closes, and she looks away. “Sorry,” she croaks.

“Forgiven,” he says, easily. “So. What are you gonna do about Solas?”

She closes her sore eyes, tearing at her bread and dipping it into her stew, mopping up the leftover broth. Bull eats with her for a long time as she thinks and thinks.

“He wants Corypheus’s orb,” she finally says, slowly. “He says he wants to study it.”

“Huh.” Bull glances at her, chewing his chicken. After a moment, he swallows, then wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Do you believe him?”

Ariala watches him put more chicken on her plate, then begins to eat it, even though her stomach feels knotted, stuffed too tight, too full. She thinks of her skeletal body, and how she had been sore and sweating and out of breath after simple archery practice, and she forces herself to eat.

“I would have,” she finally says. “Once. Before Crestwood.”

“Hm. And now?”

“I can’t trust him. I can’t believe anything he says.” She swallows hard. “I have to destroy the orb.”

Bull’s eyebrow raises high. “You gonna talk to Dagna?” he guesses.

“Yeah.” Ariala nods, jaw working as she thinks through her strategy. “We talk to Dagna. We give her your best battleaxe, and she can enchant it with something that will destroy the orb. I take you and Solas and Cole to the Arbor Wilds, to get something that will deal with the dragon, and that gives Dagna time to work on the rune and keep Solas away from Skyhold. When Corypheus comes for me, Solas will be on the front lines, as far from the orb as possible. Then, when I kill Corypheus, you destroy the orb before Solas can get it.”

“His priority will be you, first,” Bull says. “Then the orb.”

Ariala’s laugh is harsher than she would like—more bitter. The laugh of someone weighed down by weariness. “I don’t think so.”

“I am,” Bull says. “He loves you. Or at least he thinks he does. He’ll check up on you first, make sure you’re okay, and then he’ll try to get the orb.”

She sighs. “I know he loves me,” she whispers. “And I love him. But I can’t—I can’t trust him.” She swallows hard, blinking rapidly, and looks at Bull. “Which is why we have to do this. We don’t know what his plans are, and that makes him dangerous.”

“I’m with you, Ariala,” Bull says. “Whatever comes. I’m with you.”

— ✦ —

It takes them a week and a half to get to the shrine that haunts Ariala’s dreams.

They don’t have a map. They have the Well, and that’s it. Occasionally, Cole will pipe up with a helpful insight like “no, further west,” but most of his contributions are ominous or cryptic or odd or all three. Only Solas seems to have any idea what he’s talking about.

It doesn’t help that the Well’s memories of the area—polished, gleaming roads of crystal; cultivated gardens of bizarre and probably extinct plants; buildings that towered above the canopies and floated in the sky—are replaced with the reality of wilderness and ruin.  

The shrine ends up being in a clearing in a jungle north of the Arbor Wilds. They leave their horses at the treeline and venture in on foot. The clearing, while massive, holds nothing for them—nothing but ruins and nature. Ariala sees ancient arches between the trees, spots flashes of golden tiles buried beneath the grass; spots piles of stone, green with moss, that might have indicated the corners of a building that no longer stands.

At the other side of the clearing is an upraised platform, which is shaded by the trees and covered in dirt and greenery. A wall is still standing, somehow, but where the door should be, there is only a curtain of flowering vines that have no visible source.

 _There_ , the Well sings to her. _There, you shall find the Mother._

“There,” she says. “That’s what we’re looking for.”

The upraised platform is much better preserved than anything else in the clearing; the tiles are still golden, and the altar, covered in the same growth as the wall behind it, is engraved with symbols she doesn’t recognize. She stares at them, and in the back of her mind the Well stirs, providing the translation with a thousand murmurs.

“We few who travel far,” she whispers, unable to believe she’s reading written Elvhen, “call to me and I will come to you, without mercy… without fear.”

She cannot read the rest; the stone is too eroded. Solas steps forward, crouching down and reaching out, hovering his fingertips over the writing. “Cry havoc in the moonlight; let the fires of vengeance burn. The cause is clear.’” He keeps his gaze on the words as he rises to his feet. “A very old invocation. Perfectly translated.”

 _Lanalin_ , the voices whisper to her, as clear as if the speakers stood beside her. _Lanalin enaste._

Lanalin enaste: Mother’s blessing.

Mythal herself will answer this summons, if Ariala calls to her.

A shiver goes down her spine. _Mythal’s dead,_ she thinks. _How can she answer this?_

 _Lanalin enaste_ , the Well repeats, this time as two women’s voices, speaking in unison.

“Should we go?” Cole asks. “I… think we should.”

“Up to you, boss,” Bull says.

Solas has not looked away from the ancient Elvhen language engraved into the altar. She touches his shoulder and he lifts his head. His expression, a mix of longing and grief, quickly smoothes over into neutrality. Ariala pulls away and turns back to Bull. “No,” she says. “Stay with me. Please.”

A raven caws, and Ariala turns to see it land in the grasses a few feet away. Magic hums, and Morrigan rises from the spot the raven had occupied moments ago.

Oh, _great_. Just what she needs. _Morrigan._

Morrigan stares her down and approaches without any hesitation. “Would you truly have performed this ritual without me, Inquisitor?” she asks.

Ariala grits her teeth. “Yes,” she says. “In a heartbeat. Why are you here, Morrigan? I recall _specifically_ telling you that you weren’t invited.”

“I was curious to see who would answer your summons,” Morrigan replies.

“Mythal,” Ariala replies. Beside her, Solas takes a deep, steady breath. Ariala glances at him, but his expression is neutral, giving nothing away, and at this angle she can’t see his eyes. She looks back at Morrigan. “Mythal will answer my summons. You can go back to Skyhold now. Shoo.”

“And what is Mythal,” Morrigan wonders, ignoring her in favor of examining the written Elvhen on the altar, “besides something that is thousands of years dead and gone?”

Ariala’s eyebrows raise. “That,” she says, “is precisely why you were _not_ invited here. You’re either going to leave, or I will make you leave.”

Morrigan’s eyebrows rise. The Well stirs, their murmurs rising to form a single, clear thought. _She may stay_ , a man whispers to Ariala. _She is worthy. We will permit this._

 _I won’t,_ Ariala thinks.

 _She stays_ , the voice says again.

It is not phrased as a request; the thought thunders in her head, and sends a bolt of pain through her skull, coalescing behind her eyes. Ariala groans, touching her brow, taking a step back only for Solas to steady her. His hands fall away a moment later.

“The Well says you can stay,” she finally mutters.

“How hospitable of it,” Morrigan replies, dryly.

“I really don’t like you,” Ariala says.

“I do not care.”

She’s too tired for this. After this is over, she’s taking a nap, preferably for twelve hours or more.

Ariala shakes her head and gestures to Solas, and he knows what she means immediately. He takes several steps back to join Bull and Cole, leaving Morrigan and Ariala the only two standing before the altar. Ariala massages her forehead and looks to Morrigan. “You. Stay here.”

Without waiting for acknowledgement, Ariala rounds the altar and reaches out toward the curtain of green, reaching past the stiff, root-like vines and the flowering chains of green. She manages to push them aside, leaving enough space that she can slip through.

In the sunlight stands a winged statue, covered in leaves and blooming pink flowers. The head is masked, dragon-like, but the body is that of an elf. At least, she thinks it’s an elf. Most of the detail in the statue is worn smooth, leaving a faceless head atop an armless body.

“Aneth ara, Mother,” she says.

In the distance, a bird chirps, and a jungle cat roars.

She steps forward, lifting her hand and pressing it against the statue. Leaves and flowers tickle her wrist and arm, but the stone under her palm is warm, almost humming. Ariala steps forward, into the embrace of the greenery surrounding the statue, until she is wreathed in shadow and wilderness.

She is alone, but the statue is warm under her palm. She exhales and rests her forehead against the stone, closing her eyes.

“Mythal, Mother of All,” she whispers, “I was the last to drink of the _vir’abelasan_. You know me.” She exhales, hard, squeezing her eyes shut. “If you hear me—Mythal, Mother, if you’re real… we need your help. Help me. Please.”

She waits, but nothing happens. The whispers of the Well fall silent. The hope that had lightened her chest is abruptly quashed, leaving her empty again. She sighs, looking up at the statue’s featureless, worn-smooth face. “Really?” she asks.

“Boss,” Bull calls.

A gust of wind sweeps through the vines and into the hidden alcove, raising the hairs on Ariala’s nape. She turns at once, rushing back out to the clearing. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Bull reach for his greataxe, only to be stopped by Solas. Across from them, in the center of the clearing, black smoke, edged in purple unfurls, spilling across the golden-green grass. A silhouette rises from the smoke.

Ariala tenses, keeping her gaze on the figure as it strides out, revealing an old woman with snowy hair styled to resemble dragon horns, wrapped in red thread. The green smoke dissipates in the air behind her, but she keeps walking until she stands in front of Ariala and Morrigan, blithely ignoring Solas, Bull and Cole. Her focus is, inexplicably, entirely on Morrigan.

“My,” she says, resting a hand on her hip, “isn’t _this_ a surprise.”

“Mother,” Ariala whispers, kneeling.

“ _Mother_ ,” Morrigan sneers.

Wait. Mother, as in, literally?

The old woman turns her yellow gaze upon Ariala, and the Well’s whispers swell, rising in volume until they are scrambling over each other in their desperation to be heard. They cry _lanalin, lanalin, lanalin_ —mother, mother, mother. Ariala swallows.

“Why do you kneel, child?” Mythal asks. “Do you know who I am?”

“The All-Mother,” Ariala says, voice still soft with shock. “Mythal.”

“You speak that name so easily,” Mythal says, watching her with golden eyes. “Yet you are not wrong, child. I have had many names through the ages, but you… may call me Flemeth.”

Flemeth—as in Asha’bellanar? Asha’bellanar was Mythal?

But that _can’t_ be right—

“Still,” Ariala says, trying to hide her surprise, “I wasn’t sure you would come. _Ma serannas_.”

Flemeth’s laugh is more of a cackle, grating and harsh. She turns her head, revealing a rounded ear, and dismay fills her, even though she knows Asha’bellanar is human. “You see, girl?” Flemeth asks Morrigan. “ _Those_ are manners, as you require a demonstration.” She refocuses on Ariala. “Rise, child. The People are too quick to kneel.”

Ariala rises. “I don’t understand,” she says. “The Well says you are Mythal, but Mythal was—”

“One of the People?” the old woman asks, a knowing look on her face. “Yes, indeed.”

“Then _how_ can _you_ be Mythal?” Morrigan asks, anguished.

The old woman looks past them, up toward the crumbling statue of Mythal. “Once,” she says, softly, “I was but a woman, crying out into the darkness for justice. She came to me, and she granted me all I wanted and more.”

“Abelas said Mythal was murdered,” Ariala says.

“She was,” Solas says, bleakly, at the exact same time Flemeth nods.

“Then, she was but a whisper of an ancient being. A shard of what she once was. I took her in, and I have carried her with me through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her.”

“You host her,” Solas says. He sounds shaken, and that makes her look at him. His face is soft with shock, and, strangely, _relief_. She doesn’t understand why that information could possibly be a relief, of all things.

Flemeth meets his steady gaze unflinchingly. “No. She is a part of me,” she tells them. Her golden eyes turn upon Ariala, and the Well’s whispers quiet. “No more separate than your heart is from your chest.”

Solas exhales, shoulders slumping. He drops his gaze to the stone beneath their feet. “I see,” he says.

“So you follow her whims?” Morrigan demands. “Do you even know what she truly is?”

“Do _you?_ ” Flemeth asks, tilting her head, a mannerism that almost exactly matches Solas’s. Ariala sees the hair styled into dragon horns, and that makes her think of a dark-haired, faceless woman from her dreams, beseeching an emerald spirit to take a body. “You seek to restore the powers of old—but to what end?” She laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “It is because I have taught you thus, girl. It is because things happened to this world that were never meant to happen.”

Morrigan looks stricken. Flemeth looks once more to Ariala. After a moment, she draws closer, climbing the steps to the altar and stopping an arm’s length from Ariala and Morrigan. She doesn’t look away from Ariala; her golden eyes catch the light.

They shouldn’t look so cold.

“A herald indeed!” Flemeth says. “Shouting to the heavens, the harbinger of a new age.” She smiles, the harsh lines on her face gentling with the expression. “So young and vibrant. You do the People proud, and have come far.”

Somewhere off to her side, Solas inhales, sharply.

A lump wells in Ariala’s throat, and she blinks once, hard. She cannot speak, so she only nods. Flemeth looks past her, to the hole in the overgrowth that conceals the statue of Mythal. “The voices did not lie, Inquisitor,” Flemeth says. “I can help you fight Corypheus.”

“You—control the Well?” Morrigan asks, shocked.

“How lucky for you, girl, that the Inquisitor was there to save you from your own hubris,” Flemeth says, with a slight chuckle. “The price did not seem so dire when you saw so much gain, hm?”

Ariala thinks back to the Well’s insults, its whispers of _unworthy_ and _quickling_ , how it had only changed its mind after she’d called the voices a bunch of assholes. And Morrigan had gotten its immediate acceptance. If Flemeth—Mythal—held control over the Well, did she control the voices, too?

Had… had those insults come from Mythal herself?

She doesn’t want to believe it, but—but it seems true. There are too many connections.

She swallows again, her awe quickly souring into cold disappointment. She stares at Flemeth, and her disappointment twists inside her, turning into something uglier.

Flemeth brushes past her, disappearing into the hidden sanctuary that held the statue.

“So,” Bull says, “she’s an ancient elf goddess _and_ your mother?”

“As well as a witch,” Morrigan says, quietly, nose scrunching, “who prolongs her _unnatural_ life by possessing the bodies of her daughters. I found her grimoire saying as much—and I am no fool. She will not have me, or my son.”

“Damn,” Bull says.

Solas says nothing. Ariala looks over to see him watching the space Flemeth had gone into, expression slackened in shock. He looks like he is staring _through_ the wall, rather than at it. Cole is nowhere to be found in the clearing.

Flemeth emerges from the sanctuary a few minutes later. “The altar’s guardian will come, Inquisitor,” she says, brushing past them. She stands on the precipice of the steps and turns, facing them once more. “Master it, and it will be yours to command against Corypheus; fail, and die.”

Ariala nods. Flemeth looks at Morrigan and sighs. “I wished to see who drank from the Well of Sorrows. It has been… a _very_ long time. Now I have, and you are both free to go.”

“Both of us?” Morrigan asks, eyes narrowing.

“A soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan,” she tells her daughter. “You were never in any danger from me.”

Morrigan is left speechless, and Flemeth turns away, descending the steps. Shadows begin to gather in the center of the clearing, in the exact place she had arrived. Ariala watches Flemeth walk away, heart racing, and takes a deep breath. “Wait!” she calls out, stepping forward.

“Please, wait,” Ariala says again, softer. Flemeth turns around. Ariala swallows, taking a hesitant step forward. “If you’re Mythal—then why haven’t you helped us? We’ve called to you, _prayed_ to you, and we’ve gotten nothing.”

“What was cannot be changed,” Flemeth says, shaking her head, grief in her rasping voice.

“I’m not talking about what _was_ ,” Ariala says. Her anger is rising, slowly. Asha’bellanar has been around for so long, and if she has been Mythal all this time, if Mythal had been _here all this time_ —“I’m talking about _now_. Where have you been? Where are you when the People are kidnapped and sold into slavery? Where are you when we pray for justice? Where are you when chevaliers kill elves for sport? Where are you when mobs of humans slaughter entire alienages, entire _clans?_ _Where have you been, Mother?_ ”

Her last sentence is a scream, and the world is silent in its aftermath.

Flemeth’s face is soft with grief, but she has no right to feel _grief_ , she has _no right_. She has stood by for who knows how many _centuries_ and she has done nothing. She has forsaken the People.

What kind of Mother turns her back on the children who need her most?

She’s so angry she can barely think, the fury that had slept dormant—consumed by the emptiness, the apathy that has haunted her steps since Wycome—once again roaring to life inside her. She shouts, “Answer me, _damn you!_ ”

Ariala stares at her, trying to catch her breath, waiting for a response. At last, Flemeth only shakes her head—slightly, pityingly—and says, “You know not what you ask, child.”

Ariala spits at Flemeth’s feet, and yells, “Did you ever listen to our prayers? Did you ever even _hear_ them?”

Flemeth—Mythal—does not answer. She turns on her heel and walks away. Ariala lunges forward, but Bull is there, grabbing her before she can get too far, wrapping his arms around her and holding her fast against his chest. Ariala jerks, fighting his hold, but she is too weak, she’s always too gods-damned weak—

“ _Harellan!_ ” she shouts, hurling the insult at Flemeth’s back. She reaches for the words, and the Well reaches back, whispering the proper translation. Bull tightens his arms around her as she kicks and screams. “ _Harellan! Halam’shiras em’an; banal’lathas elvhen; ma tel’ame var lanalin—_ ”

Flemeth disappears in a plume of black smoke, the same one that had heralded her arrival. Ariala sags in Bull’s arms, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, fighting tears. Bull kneels with her, letting her lean against him as her shoulders shake and her throat closes up.

“Do I want to know what she said?” Bull asks.

“No,” says Solas.

“You abandoned us,” Cole whispers. When had he come back? “You never loved the People. You were never our Mother.”

Bull whistles. “ _Damn_ , boss.”

Ariala hangs her head, leaning against him. She clenches her jaw to keep herself from bursting into tears right then and there. Gods, she’s so sick of _crying._

“All things considered, Inquisitor,” Morrigan starts.

Ariala snarls, looking over her shoulder at her. “Morrigan, for once in your life, shut _up_.”

Morrigan huffs, then gasps. “ _Kieran_.”

“Who?” Bull asks.

“Her son,” Solas says.

“I must go,” Morrigan says, already rushing down the stairs. “He is vulnerable alone. I—I trust I shall see you at Skyhold, Inquisitor.”

Ariala watches her run toward the clearing. Mid-step, she transforms into a raven and takes wing, soaring up into the sky and disappearing over the tops of the trees. Before Ariala can speak, though, she hears a dragon roar, loud enough to shake the trees. Birds take to the sky, and Ariala shields her eyes against the sun.

A giant golden dragon appears, landing heavily in the center of the clearing. Ariala swallows and gets to her feet, helping Bull stand, noting his wince when he puts too much weight on his bad ankle. He waves her off and she releases him, turning toward the dragon, which is only watching her.

“Inquisitor,” Solas says.

She ignores him. The dragon exhales, a long gust of hot air that smells like sulfur when it reaches her. Ariala wrinkles her nose and keeps going, until she is standing before the dragon’s snout, and its massive body blocks out the sun, casting a shadow over her. It glares at her, golden-brown eyes full of malice, but Ariala has killed bigger dragons than this one.

The Well whispers directions to her, and she obeys, reaching out and pressing her hand to the dragon’s snout. She feels something inside her flare white-hot, concentrating all along her back and on her forehead and temples, and winces when that heat gives way to a flash of blue light.

 _Tarasyl’an tel’as,_ the Well whisper-sings. _Tarasyl’an tel’as._

“Tarasyl’an tel’as,” Ariala whispers to the dragon. Blue light gleams in its eye for a heartbeat, a shade that makes the voices sing in her ear, and then it huffs, stepping back from her and flapping its wings. Wind buffets her as the dragon takes to the sky, but Ariala holds her ground, watching as it—hopefully—flies toward Skyhold. Black spots swim in her vision, and she touches her vallaslin, feeling nothing but her own sweat.

“Man, I hope that worked,” she says, softly, then turns around, waving to her companions. Once they reach her—Solas’s gaze is still on the sky, watching the dragon as it grows smaller and smaller, his face soft with awe—Ariala forces a smile. “So. Anyone else ready for a nap?”

— ✦ —

They don’t end up taking a nap break, to her endless disappointment. They spend the rest of the day riding back to Skyhold, though half of that “riding” is actually “going on foot because the jungle is too thick to navigate on horseback.”

By the end of the day, the jungle is still thick and green around them, but they’re at least two riding days from the Graves themselves. They find a good place to set up camp, and while Solas sets out wards, Ariala goes hunting to supplement their trail rations.

Dinner consists of berries, pink bananas she’d found while hunting, and august ram. Cole disappears and Bull is the first to retire, leaving Solas and Ariala alone. He’s watching her pick at the food on her plate, silent, expression thoughtful. She stands, ready to dump her remaining food into the fire and go to bed, but he says, “Inquisitor. Will you sit with me a moment?”

Ariala sighs and does, settling beside him, making sure there’s plenty of space between them. Solas reaches over and grabs an uneaten pink banana. “You do not want this?”

She shakes her head. “Too seedy.”

“Ah.” He opens it but does not eat it. Instead, he watches her, and, feeling a bit like a pinned insect under scrutiny, Ariala tears off a chunk of her hardened biscuit and puts it in her mouth. Solas takes a breath. “Cole found a waterfall nearby. Would you like to see it?”

She thinks of the grease in her hair, the dirt on her skin, and resists the urge to pat at her half-undone bun. “Sure,” she says. “Let me—I need to get something first.”

Solas tilts his head and she finishes her biscuit, chewing as she goes back into her tent—the one she’s supposedly sharing with Cole, but she’s never, ever seen Cole sleep or eat, so really it’s hers and hers alone. She goes through her bedroll until she finds the bag that holds all her toiletries, then returns to the campfire, where Solas is almost done eating the pink banana. He finishes it and tosses the peel into the fire, standing up at her approach and wiping his hands on his leathers.

“Shall we?” he asks.

“After you.”

He nods, tucking his arms behind his back, and she can’t help but think of before Crestwood. Before Crestwood, he would have held his palm out to her; they would’ve held hands as he took her to this waterfall.

She holds her tongue and looks ahead, following him into the jungle’s darkness.

The canopy blocks out what little light the moon provides, so Solas summons a small magelight to guide their steps. She looks up into the illuminated leaves, listening to the night sounds—chirps of crickets, frogs, low groans of nocturnal creatures.

“So Mythal yet lingers,” Solas says, breaking the quiet between them. Ariala stops listening to the sounds around them and refocuses on him, only to watch him stop and step over a fallen, half-rotted log. She steps over it as well, keenly aware of his eyes on her, and lifts her head to look at him.

“I guess so.” She pauses. “I assume you knew her, then. Before she became human and all.”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yes.”

“You must’ve been some bigwig, then.”

Solas laughs, but it sounds pained, not very amused at all. “You sound like Sera.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Unfortunately, you are correct.” Solas’s mouth tightens, turns down. “My position meant that I was complicit in the worst aspects of Elvhenan, and in some cases I encouraged those terrible things. My pride blinded me to everything I did not wish to see, and it was a very long while—too long, in retrospect—before I realized the error of my ways. It took longer still for me to attempt to correct my mistakes.”

“But you learned,” Ariala says. “You grew. You became a better man.”

Solas glances down. “I fear you would have hated me, had you known me then.”

Ariala stops and reaches out, touching his arm. He stops at once, turning toward her, grey eyes reflecting the magelight for a brief instant. She watches him in silence, then says, “I know you now. That’s what matters.” She allows a small, sincere smile. “You still have some things to work on. But you’re getting there.”

Solas says nothing, watching her intently. After a long moment, he takes her hand, his touch impossibly gentle, and lifts it, kissing her palm. A shiver runs up her arm, and she swallows. “Solas…”

He always does this.

He always, always does this.

“I know,” he says, quietly, but he doesn’t let go. “I know.”

His fingers curl, cupping the back of her hand. He closes his eyes and a lump wells in her throat. When he releases her wrist, she stands on the balls of her feet and presses her hand to the back of his neck, pulling him down to press her forehead to his.

 _I miss you_ , she thinks, a little desperately. _I miss you I miss you I miss you—_

“Why are you so tall?” she says instead. Solas laughs so hard he snorts, and then he pulls away from her, shaking his head. He looks at her with unbridled affection, and her breath catches, heart pounding in her chest. She swallows, looking away, taking a deep breath.

“We are almost there,” he tells her in the resulting quiet, and they resume walking.

He’s right: after a few more minutes, she hears the rush of water breaking the hum of the insects and the call of the night beasts. She looks to him, only to see him staring straight ahead, his hands clasped once again behind his back.

“Here,” he says, gesturing to a small trail that leads downhill, barely noticeable until he’d pointed it out. She sees the groove worn into the ground, caused by the tread of both animals and people, and takes it, reaching out to balance herself against the trees and sturdy shrubs around them.

The foliage clears out to reveal a pool of water stretching out before her. Smooth flat rocks sit above the pool, and water runs over them, a gentle waterfall that ends in mist. Above them, the canopy clears out, revealing an uneven circle of sky, and a smattering of stars, diamonds against indigo. Ariala looks down and approaches the pebbled edge of the pool, Solas’s magelight hovering over her shoulder. She kneels at the shore of the pool, setting her bag of toiletries beside her.

She looks at her rippling reflection, and her gaze goes to the vallaslin written upon her brow and temples. Her Mother’s mark, chosen to honor a woman who had never cared, who would never care. A symbol of pride, ultimately meaningless.

She remembers the Well’s taunts in Wycome: _The Mother does not hear you, quickling child. She does not know you._

It stings to know the voices had been right. The gods she had turned to as a girl had never heard her prayers—and the Mother she’d loved had never cared. Her faith, her devotion, her pride… none of it had mattered.

None of it had ever mattered.

Ariala’s eyes water, a now-familiar and yet deeply unwelcome sensation, and she sits back on her heels with a heavy sigh, closing her eyes.

She just wants to sleep. That’s it. She doesn’t want to think of false gods or false Mothers or anything else. She just wants to sleep and not wake up for five hours—months—years. With another sigh, she lays back, resting her head on the jungle floor, uncaring of the dirt that’s getting in her hair or the grass staining her clothes.

She could sleep here, she thinks, underneath the canopy and the stars. It’s been a while since she’d slept out in the open like this.

Solas sits beside her, leaving an arm’s length of space between them. “No closer,” she warns. “I’m gross.”

She hasn’t taken a bath since Skyhold, and she’s certain she smells like it. Not that anyone else in her party is any better—the jungle is hot and humid, and several times during their journey she’d felt like the air had been too thick to breathe—but now, like this, she’s acutely aware of how much she needs to bathe. It’s just that the thought of taking off her clothes and getting into the pool feels… impossible.

It’s a stupidly, _infuriatingly_ simple task, but her body won’t cooperate.

Gods, she’s so pathetic.

“What was uthenera like?” she asks.

“Why do you ask?” Solas replies.

“I’unno. I think it’d be nice to sleep for three thousand years uninterrupted.”

Solas exhales. “If you would like to wake up in a foreign land, speaking a dead language, not knowing where you are or what the world has become in your absence, and spend the better part of several months too weak to care for yourself, I heartily recommend it.”

Ariala can’t bring herself to smile.

After a long pause, she breathes out, closing her eyes, unable to look at him as she speaks. “I’m sorry. About earlier, back in Skyhold. The whole… joke about Varric, and my death. I didn’t realize it meant so much to you.”

Solas’s exhale shakes. “Of course it does,” he whispers. She opens her eyes to see him staring at his hands, a look of utter heartbreak on his face. He does not look at her when his eyes flutter shut, and his shoulders slump.

“You changed everything,” he admits, and she thinks of the awe in his voice when they had shared a dream at Haven—when she had risen to the balls of her feet, her thumb pressing into the cleft of his chin as she turned his jaw, the arch of his eyebrows and his startled gasp warm against her mouth—

“This world has so little light,” he whispers. “It would be immeasurably darker without you. I want you to know that.”

_I wish you could see the hole you’d leave behind._

A lump wells in her throat, and she clenches her jaw, staring out into the darkness of the pool, listening to the waterfall and watching the mist over the water. She doesn’t think of their first kiss in the false Haven. She doesn’t let herself think of anything.

When she says nothing for a long while, Solas shifts, bowing his head. “I will leave you in peace, then,” he says, standing. “I shall leave magelights for you, so you may find your way back to camp.”

“Solas,” she says, and he stops. Ariala’s hold on the bag tightens. She opens her mouth, heart sinking as she sees him tuck his hands behind his back and look out over the rippling pool. She wants to call him back to her side, to feel his arm around her again, but she holds her tongue. She knows it is a bad idea. They are so entangled already, and so close to the end; it would do neither of them any good, caught in the spider’s web as they are, to trap themselves further.

 _Arasha,_ she despairs. _Why couldn’t you trust me?_

“Ma serannas,” she says instead. Solas half-smiles, gaze flickering to the jungle floor, and he nods again, murmuring an acknowledgment under his breath. After a brief moment, a breath’s-length of pause—and she wonders _is he waiting for me_ —he turns, and returns to the shadows.

She lets him go, despite her heartache.

It’s easier than she’d thought it would be.

— ✦ —

The second day of their ride back to Skyhold, the prototype messaging crystal Dorian had given her before she’d left lights up a bright, bright purple—and warms enough to burn. She hisses, taking it off, and holds the length of leather that serves as its necklace instead. “Dorian?” she asks, touching the crystal. Solas looks at her, and Bull and Cole stop their odd conversation about tamassrans to listen in. “What’s wrong?”

“Ariala?” she hears back, but Dorian’s voice is garbled.

“Dorian, I can’t hear you properly. Is everything okay?”

A long pause. “—now?” Dorian asks.

“I just heard the ‘now.’”

They hear Dorian’s curse perfectly, and then the crystal buzzes, Dorian’s voice turning to static. Ariala stops Syl, and the others follow suit. They wait until the static ends, which takes several long minutes. Then, finally, Dorian sighs into the crystal. “How about now?”

“Much better,” Ariala replies.

“Ah, excellent, excellent. I want you to know, right now I’m standing on the highest tower in the fortress. I’m _freezing_.”

“Perhaps you should clear the stray mana fields around the crystals once you have both of them again,” Solas suggests. “I believe they might be interfering with the reception. The Veil around Skyhold is incredibly thin—”

Dorian scoffs, cutting him off. “Yes, yes, I’m aware. That is why I’m on the tallest tower. Honestly, my glabrous friend, do you take me for an amateur? I am an _academic._ ”

Solas rolls his eyes, and his irritation only grows when Bull gives him a consoling pat on the back and whispers _you tried_. Ariala smiles to herself. “What is it, Dorian?” she asks.

“Ah. Yes.” Dorian pauses. “Leliana’s scouts have reported Corypheus is on the march against Skyhold. He left the Emprise several days ago. We just received the reports.”

“Several _days_ ago?” Solas asks, eyes widening. Ariala’s already doing the mental math in her head. It had taken them a full week to get the Inquisition’s initial armies to the Emprise, longer while they waited for reinforcements and supplies to bolster their ranks. That would mean—

“Aw, _crap_ ,” Bull says.

“He’s almost there,” Cole says. “We can’t beat him.” He looks at Solas.

“Yes,” Dorian agrees, and he doesn’t sound happy about it. “We’ve started making the immediate precautions, preparing for a siege and whatnot, but we needed to let you know. I thought this would be faster than a raven.”

“Yeah,” Ariala says, faintly. “Thank you, Dorian. What do my advisors say I should do?”

“Well,” Dorian says. “Other than _don’t come to Skyhold?_ ”

“I’m not gonna _abandon_ you—”

“There’s no other way in, boss,” Bull interrupts. “We won’t be able to sneak through the siege, unless Cole can hide all of us. Cole?” He looks to Cole, who shakes his head.

Ariala grits her teeth. “Thank you, Dorian,” she finally says. “I’ll think of something. Let me know when he reaches Skyhold.”

“All right. Be safe.”

“You too.”

“Dorian,” Solas calls out, before either of them close the connection. Dorian hums, and Solas sighs. “If you or Commander Cullen fear our defenses will not be adequate against Corypheus’s dragon, ask Skyhold for assistance.”

“Oh, yeah, speaking of dragons, I got one,” Ariala says.

“You… _got_ a dragon. What, like someone _gets_ a dog? Your dragon eggs are still incubating in Skyhold’s cellars with that Orlesian chap, if I recall correctly.”

“It’s heading to Skyhold,” Ariala says. “Or it should be. Don’t shoot it if you see it. Yellow, big, kinda looks like an Abyssal. It’s on our side. It’ll fight Corypheus’s dragon for us.”

“You should have _started_ with that,” Dorian says. She can hear his teeth chattering. “All right. You’ve sent a friendly yellow dragon to help us, and if we’re in trouble, I’ll ask a non-sapient castle for help. I’m not sure how to do that last one, but I’ll try, Solas. Just for you.”

Solas sighs, and Dorian cuts the connection. Ariala waits for the crystal to cool down—she’ll have to tell Dorian she was afraid the thing would overheat and-or explode—before draping it over her head again. There is a long moment of silence, before she sighs and breaks it with a quiet _“shite._ ”

“Yeah,” Bull says. “What’s your plan, boss?”

“My plan,” she says. “We all become shapeshifters, turn into dragons, and fly to Skyhold. That’s my plan. It took us longer than a week to ride here, it’s gonna take longer than a week to ride back.”

“Inquisitor,” Solas says. She looks at him, only to see he is staring at Cole, and Cole is staring back. After a long moment, Cole nods, and Solas sighs again, looking back at her. His expression is unreadable, but there is uncertainty in his eyes. “There is another way.”

“Oh? I’m listening.”

“I must ask that this be kept between the four of us,” Solas says.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Bull says.

Solas does not reply—he’s looking to her, mouth in a thin line. When she does nothing, he sighs. “Left or right?” he asks, quietly, lowering his head.

“Right,” says Cole.

Solas nods. “Follow me,” he says, and urges Eirlana forward, turning her to the right. Ariala exchanges a look with Bull, who shakes his head minutely when he catches her eye. She nods at him, then turns to follow Solas.

He takes them at a slow walk through the jungle’s underbrush, occasionally asking Cole questions about directions—north or east, left or right, further or did I go too far?—and saying nothing to either Ariala or Bull. Ariala looks around, trying to make out specific landmarks or other indicators that Solas may be using to navigating, but all she sees is jungle.

Until Bull reaches out and touches her shoulder, silent, and points to her northeast. She squints and stills, wide-eyed, when she sees a wolf between the trees. It’s a stone statue, taller than she is on Syl. It is discolored, green with moss and fungus; the features have softened and become almost unrecognizable due to erosion.

But she still knows what it is.

“Solas,” she says, “why is there a statue of Fen’Harel here? Where are you taking us?”

“Please,” Solas replies. He does not look over his shoulder. He turns them left, toward the statue, and as they grow closer Ariala realizes Fen’Harel had had a twin—but the other Fen’Harel is gone, nothing left of it but half a leg and its base.

“The slow arrow breaks in the sad wolf’s jaws,” Cole whispers. Solas’s shoulders hunch. She doesn’t know what to make of it. Had Solas—gods, had Solas _known_ Fen’Harel? Just as he’d known Mythal? She watches him, silently willing him to turn around and look at her, but he doesn’t. She resists the urge to say something, to demand answers.

This is ancient ground, she senses. She does not want to speak except in whispers, and Solas would not hear her if she whispered.

As she rides between the two wolves, something sends shivers down her spine. Bull turns his head, sitting up straighter in his saddle, but he says nothing, and when he looks at her again, he’s frowning. He meets her eye and shakes his head again.

Solas stops his horse, and so do they. “We will have to go on foot from here,” he says, softly.

In front of him is nothing more than a wall of overgrowth and ruin. Still, Ariala dismounts, taking Syl’s reins in hand. Solas dismounts as well, and Eirlana tosses her head, whickering, planting her feet in the soil and refusing to move. Solas moves to her front and strokes her nose, whispering softly in Elvhen. Once Eirlana calms, Solas moves to the side. He catches Ariala’s gaze for a moment before turning away.

Cole is already in front of the wall of ivy, cutting it away with one of his daggers. His efforts slowly but surely reveal a shadowed doorway that barely looks large enough to fit both them and their horses. Solas takes Eirlana inside, and Ariala looks at Bull.

“We going in, boss?” he asks.

Ariala looks back at the doorway. “We don’t really have a choice,” she says, and goes through the doorway, Syl’s reins grasped loosely in her hand.

Bull manages to fit, but only after they take in his charger—he has to duck and twist his head to fit his horns. Once he’s inside, he dusts off his pants and takes his horse’s reins from Ariala.

“We must go,” Solas says.

“Wait,” she says, “please.”

Solas pauses, then nods, acquiescing. Ariala gives Syl’s reins to Bull and steps back, taking a look around. The room they’re in is dark—the windows had been squares cut into the stone, and are now covered in jungle overgrowth. Sunlight illuminates a single corner of the building, where a tree had taken root in the rubble, growing half in the jungle and half in the ruin. But that is not what captivates her.

It is the faded murals and mosaics of wolves that cover the walls.

It is the statue of Fen’Harel, alert and standing guard, that sits in the center of the room.

She turns toward Solas. “What was this place?” she asks. “A temple to Fen’Harel?”

She is not close enough to see his expression, but his body stiffens at the suggestion, then relaxes. He takes a breath. “No,” he says. “It was a sanctuary.”

“Atish’all vallem,” Cole says. “Fen’Harel elathadra.”

“Uh,” Bull says. Solas inclines his head, but doesn’t offer a translation. Neither does the Well.

Ariala thinks, but all she can vaguely translate is _atish’all_ , which must be some kind of greeting, and _Fen’Harel_ , which is obvious. She shakes her head and turns away from the murals and the mosaics, returning to Bull and Solas. “Sanctuary from what? From Fen’Harel? That doesn’t make sense.”

Solas flinches, meeting her gaze for a moment before looking away. He begins to lead Eirlana forward, and after a moment Bull and Ariala follow him, their mounts’ reins in hand.

“How did you know this place was here, Solas?” Bull asks. “Because this seems real fuckin’ convenient.”

Solas’s smile is wan and mirthless. “I do not suppose you would believe me if I said I had seen this place in the Fade.”

“Yeah, no.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Ariala says, lips pursing. “Why is there a statue of Fen’Harel here, if it wasn’t a temple? Sanctuary from _what?_ ”

She knows he does not react well to anger or hostility, so she keeps her tone light and curious, just as she had whenever she was asking him questions in Haven or Skyhold, before Crestwood.

When she reaches for the Well, it stays distant, silent. She clenches her jaw, biting down on her unreasonable anger, and exhales, watching Solas as he stares at her, his thoughts masked by a neutral expression.

She’s missing something. All she needs is a single piece to complete the puzzle, a single brushstroke to complete the painting. The problem is she is missing it, and the absence leaves her in the dark.

“You recall that your myth claims Fen’Harel betrayed the Dalish gods,” he finally says. Ariala nods, and he continues, “That supposed betrayal manifested as a rebellion. The elves who joined Fen’Harel’s cause against the evanuris—those you consider gods—were persecuted harshly, and thus needed safehouses. This place was one such sanctuary, its protection guaranteed by Fen’Harel himself. That is the reason for the statues.”

He turns a corner, and Ariala stares at the mosaics, nearly consumed by green tarnish and moss and creeping vines. He summons a few magelights, as the weeds had choked out any natural source of light, and the illumination catches in some of the metal elven eyes. Other than their breaths and their horses’ hooves clopping across the stone floor, the sanctuary is silent.

She feels watched.

“And I’m guessing you know this because of the Fade,” Bull says, the gruffness in his voice betraying his skepticism. Solas does not reply, does not even look backward toward either of them. Bull gives her a pointed look, one she meets head-on.

It’s about ten more minutes of walking—Solas takes them up a ramp made slippery with sap and rainwater, choked with creeping vines, and the murals of elves with chipped faces and eyes watch her as they pass—before he takes them into a small room, barely large enough to fit the four of them and their horses.

It is dark, until Solas summons Veilfire in his hand. The eerie blue light reveals nothing but stone walls, and a tarnished mirror propped against the wall. Ariala sees it, sees its simple wooden frame and glass reflecting the Veilfire’s light, and her heart leaps into her throat.

“No way,” she breathes.

“Another one of those mirrors,” Bull guesses. “Like in that temple.”

“Precisely, Iron Bull.” Solas approaches the mirror and releases Eirlana’s reins. She paws at the ground, hoof stamping as she whinnies.

“Revas vir’anaris,” Cole breathes to her, voice pitched too low for anyone but her to hear. She looks at him, and he looks straight back at her, his eyes concealed by the brim of his hat, pulled low to cover his face.

“Got it,” she whispers.

Solas pushes vines out of the way, tucking them behind the warped and tarnished eluvian frame, and rests his palm against the glass. She sees his reflection’s lips move, but hears nothing. She looks to Bull, and he catches her gaze. She taps her ear, nodding toward Solas, mouths, _hear anything?_

He shakes his head. She looks to where Cole had last been, but he is gone.

She needs to talk to him about that.

A moment later, the room erupts in bright blue. Eirlana shies, whinnying in alarm. Ariala shields her eyes as the eluvian flares, casting Solas in darkness, turning him into a black shape against blue light that pulses and shivers, eventually settling into shimmering ripples that give off heat. Solas takes a long, deep breath, and exhales, turning toward Eirlana to calm her.

“What the _shit_ ,” Bull says.

Solas looks up. The dim light makes his pupils catch the light—she sees only the reflection of his eyes and his black silhouette against the magic of the reawakened eluvian.

“Shall we go?” he asks.

— ✦ —

She doesn’t know how long they stay in the Crossroads—though they camp once, after following Solas’s lead for hours, skirting through mist-shrouded paths and taking detours when they find cracked eluvians or missing roads, the light never changes. It’s always grey and overcast and, frankly, depressing. It makes her want to sleep even more than usual.

Solas looks at it with a grief in his eyes that he recognizes. She rides beside him as he leads them through the Crossroads, and watches from the corner of her eye every time they ride past a dark or shattered eluvian, or a bare-branched tree simulacra.

“I have never seen it like this,” he whispers to her. “It is meant to be so much… _more_.”

She doesn’t ask him to explain, and he offers none in turn.

When they finally find the eluvian that goes to Skyhold, they enter what _should_ have been a guarded room, but there is no one there. Ariala’s brow furrows, and then her stomach sinks when she hears faint shouts outside.

Corypheus.

_Shite._

“Leave the horses here,” she says, “come with me. Bull, go to the Undercroft. Get what we need, then find Cullen. I’ll be with him.”

“On it.”

She, Solas, and Cole run out into the abandoned Great Hall. Outside, the walls are swarming with soldiers, and the stars are bright in the sky. Ariala sees the ramparts full of archers, and though she can’t see him she can hear Cullen shouting orders.

A streak of orange lights up the sky, and Ariala watches a flaming rock careen over the walls and land in the middle of the training field. She swears, startling on instinct, bumping into Solas, who steadies her. His gaze moves from the rock to the ramparts.

“We must find Cullen,” he says.

“Yes,” Cole says, “this way.”

They follow Cole, Ariala’s heart hammering in her throat, and he leads her to the ramparts outside of Cullen’s office. Someone shouts to Cullen, and she hears _Inquisitor_ , but when she looks she only sees archers releasing a round. Ariala pushes past one archer, looking over the ramparts, and her stomach plummets.

Stretched all the way down the mountain are flickering torches, as far as the eye can see. Solas sucks in a breath behind her, and Ariala swallows. The shadows are all tinted red, and she can see the smoldering flames of rage demons, lurking terrors, the despair demons hunched over in their rotten rags.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen shouts, and Ariala looks up to see Cullen running from the other side of the ramparts, Jim at his side. She meets him halfway, and he steadies himself, breathing hard. Before she can say anything, he holds up a gloved hand and shakes his head. “Siege started—two days ago,” he says. “No sign of Corypheus. We’ve held them off so far.”

“Where are the civilians? Are they safe?”

“Yes. They’re in the lowest parts of Skyhold. We evacuated most of them when we received word—the merchants and Chantry folk. But the rest are safe.” He sucks in another breath, wiping sweat from his brow. “The odds are in our favor, Inquisitor. Your work ensured he doesn’t have many demons or Venatori—the Templars are our biggest concern. Mages are useless, so we’ll be keeping most of them behind the walls as healers.”

“We’re not sending people _out there_ ,” Ariala says, nauseous.

“We have no choice,” Cullen says. “They have trebuchets and a dragon. They’ll break our walls if we try to wait them out.”

“Wait,” Ariala says. “What about my dragon?”

“ _Your_ dragon? Oh, the one Dorian mentioned, yes.” Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose. She can hear the faint shouts of soldiers. “If it was ever on its way here, it has yet to reach us.”

“Where are the others? The Inner Circle?” Solas asks.

Cullen nods, turns toward the man beside him. “Jim, get them, tell them to meet in the courtyard. Tell them the Inquisitor has returned.”

Jim takes off running.

“Where are the soldiers?” she asks. “The courtyard was empty.”

“Barracks, awaiting orders. We have a garrison of a few thousand, but we requested reinforcements from our troops in Caer Bronach, the Hinterlands, and Fallow Mire when we received word of Corypheus’s march. They should be here any day.”

Another flaming rock flies over the walls, and Ariala watches wide-eyed as it sails over their heads directly towards Skyhold itself. She covers her mouth, unable to look away, as it smashes into the wall, sending down a burst of debris and dust and rocks.

_Fucking shitnuggets._

“ _Okay_ _!_ ” she shouts. “Everyone, courtyard, _now!_ ”

Solas is swearing under his breath, Cullen is not bothering to hide his swearing at all, and Cole is wringing his hands as he follows the three of them to the courtyard. It doesn’t take long for the entire Inner Circle to assemble in their battle gear; Iron Bull has put on his reinforced armor, and his greataxe glows with a faint red light. He catches her eye and nods.

“What’s the plan, boss?” he asks.

“Cullen, who is your second in command?” she asks.

“Belinda Darrow,” he replies, unhesitating. “She has experience training and leading our recruits, and has led multiple successful missions on behalf of the Inquisition.”

“Good. She’ll be commanding the front lines. We’ll attack the moment we know the reinforcements are in position—Dorian, if you have more prototypes of this necklace, send it with the raven so we have a way to communicate from both sides. Solas will be on the ramparts, shielding the troops, out of range of the Templars’ smites.”

Solas stiffens.

“I will also be on the front lines,” Ariala continues, holding up a hand when Cullen protests. “When Corypheus hears I’m out there, he will come. Cassandra, Bull, and Vivienne will accompany me. Everyone else—Cullen will put you where he thinks you are best suited. All, dismissed.”

“A moment,” Solas says. The ground shakes, and she hears something _crunch_ as parts of the ramparts give way beneath another trebuchet’s stone. Cullen draws the other Inner Circle aside to divvy up assignments, and Solas pulls her away, one hand tucked against his back. Once he deems them to have sufficient privacy, he turns around and faces her.

“Why will I not be by your side?” he asks, voice low. “My barriers are far superior to the Enchanter’s—”

“The soldiers will need you more than I do,” she says, heart hammering. She glances up toward Skyhold, where the wall has caved in around the boulder, and she can smell smoke. Solas exhales harshly, and she looks back at him. “And Vivienne can cast restorative spells. I’ll need her—”

“Do you truly expect me to stand aside and watch you throw yourself carelessly into danger?” Solas asks, eyes narrowing, nose slightly scrunching. He grasps her arms, then winces at once, releasing her and flexing his fingers. Ariala swallows, and he sighs, blinking hard.

“Ariala,” he says, “let me keep you safe. Please. Losing you would—”

He stops, pressing his lips tightly together, and Ariala’s heart hurts.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“I love you,” she whispers. When the impulse seizes her, she doesn’t resist: she rolls up onto the balls of her feet, gloved fingers curving around the nape of his neck and bringing him down. She presses her forehead to his, closing her eyes when she feels his shaking hands brush her cheeks. “This is me keeping _you_ safe.”

 _And keeping you away from the orb,_ she thinks, eyes burning. When she blinks, two tears run down her face, cutting through the dust. 

“Please let me keep you safe,” she says, voice high and hitched.

Solas wipes her tears away; his own eyes gleam too brightly in the darkness, reflecting the firelight from the ramparts. “Ma nuvenin,” he says, hoarsely. Her exhale stutters, and she touches his face, cradling his cheek in her left hand. He kisses her palm and steps away, nodding, swallowing thickly. “Go, vhenan. I will find you when it is over. It will all be worth it, in the end, I promise.”

He does not let go of her hand until she nods and pulls away.

— ✦ —

(“Now we shall see who is worthy of godhood,” Corypheus sneers.

Ariala rolls her eyes, utterly underwhelmed. “Man, you’re so full of shit.”

Her gods are either dead, or they have stopped caring.

She’s gonna take a nap when this is over.)

— ✦ —

In the end, it doesn’t take much. When Corypheus is torn apart by the rift she summons, she channels the Anchor’s and the orb’s magic into the ripped-open sky, sealing the Breach for good.

Her three companions look to her, bloodied and weary but alive. Ariala manages a smile just as the floating rock they’re on jerks, falling an inch, making her stomach bottom out. Ariala loses her footing and looks up to see Bull sprinting toward her just before the rock shudders and plummets. Bull shouts her name, lunging for her, and by some miracle she manages to cling to the orb as his arms wrap around her and they fall. If she screams, she doesn’t hear it over the roar of wind, doesn’t feel anything but the terror in her soul and Bull’s arms around her.

They land so hard her teeth clack and her bones rattle, hurting her joints. Ariala tastes blood—she’d bitten her tongue—and squeezes her eyes shut. Bull rolls on top of her, shielding her from the debris of the Temple still raining down around them. Ariala squeezes her eyes shut and waits out the chaos, wincing every time the ground shakes with a new impact.

When it is over, she lets the orb roll away from her, watching green lightning-like crackles of magic burst over its grooved surface. It hums, glowing almost too brightly to look at directly, and begins to levitate, hovering a few inches in the air.

“Bull!” she shouts.

“On it, boss!”

He gets to his feet with a grunt, drawing his greataxe and running toward the orb, now spinning and slowly beginning to lift itself in the air. With a roar, he hefts it and brings it down onto the orb.

Ariala flinches, lifting a hand, but the orb’s destruction isn’t dramatic. There’s no deafening boom of sound, no rush of magical power. It simply breaks in half, forced apart by the weight of Bull’s weapon, and clatters to the ground—no longer an artifact crackling with power, but two hunks of dead black rock.

“Bull?” she asks, breathless. Her chest hurts. “You okay?”

Bull grimaces, shortened hand going to his knee. He kneels, then collapses on the ground, and she crawls her way over to him. She reaches out to touch his knee, noting his wince, and he waves his hand at her. “I’ll be fine,” he says, panting. “Just jarred it a little, I think. _Shit_.”

“Can you stand?”

“Probably can. Don’t want to, though.”

“Okay. I’ll stay with you.” She pulls herself into a sitting position, leaning against him.

Bull nods, then looks over his shoulder. His body blocks the view, but she knows he’s looking at the remains of the orb. “Think he’ll buy it?” Bull asks.

“I don’t know.”

Bull nods, looking her over with a critical eye. “You okay?”

Ariala nods, resting her cheek against his shoulder, trying to steady her breathing, her racing heart. She is going to be sore all day tomorrow, and that’s something she is decidedly _not_ looking forward to. She closes her eyes, sighing, and Bull wraps his arm around her, drawing her close against his side.

She doesn’t know how long they sit together, exhausted and surrounded by rubble and ruin, before she hears Cassandra cry out: “Inquisitor? Bull? Are you both alive?”

“Over here, Cass. we’re fine!” Bull calls. “All right, boss, moment of truth.”

Ariala gets to her feet, wobbling a little, and helps Bull stand. She senses movement and turns her head, only to see Solas and Cassandra appear over the rise of the chunk of dirt and rock she and Bull had landed on. Solas catches her gaze and he exhales, hard, walking toward her even though he looks like he wants to run. His eyes move from her to her Anchored hand, resting on Bull’s arm, and his shoulders straighten.

She moves toward him, instead, unable to keep herself from reaching out. His exhale hitches and he reaches back, drawing her into his arms and holding her close. Ariala buries her face into his chest, breathing hard, almost jittery from the aftermath of battle. “You’re alive,” he murmurs, lips pressed against her hair, and she nods, squeezing her eyes shut.

She can almost pretend he’s not about to leave.

She hears Cassandra quietly talking to Bull, hears Bull suggest that they give Ariala and Solas _space_. She feels Solas stroke her hair, once, and then he stiffens in her arms.

When he pulls away, gently disentangling himself, she lets him go. She turns, watching him approach the remains of the orb with careful, tentative steps. She hears the shocked exhale; she watches him fall to his knees, as if he can no longer keep himself standing.

He stares at the orb for several long moments, and Ariala swallows. She steels her nerves, ignoring her nausea and her fear that he will find out the truth, and she steps forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. Instead of flinching away, he sags, and she slowly kneels beside him, wincing when her knee pops.

“Solas,” she whispers.

“The orb.”

The _grief_ in his voice, as real and raw as when he’d mourned the death of Wisdom—

Ariala looks away, swallowing again. She pulls her hand away, resting it in her lap, and looks at the ground. “I know you wanted the orb saved. I’m so sorry.”

Her voice does not break when she speaks. She has learned a few things from him, after all. 

“It is not _your_ fault,” Solas says, quietly, but he is still looking at the orb, the largest piece of which is cradled in his hands. Ariala says nothing, not trusting herself to speak. She watches him exhale, and gently lower the orb piece to the stone, as reverent as she’s ever seen him. After a long moment, he pushes himself to his feet, and Ariala stands up.

He turns toward her, mouth tight, eyes uncertain.

“This is it, then,” she guesses, hating the lump in her throat. She’s known. She’s _known_ he will leave, and yet—and yet—

She still wants him to stay. Despite everything.

“It was not supposed to happen this way,” he says, looking away from her. He exhales again, lifting his head and staring at the horizon, where the faintest light is beginning to emerge from over the mountains. He hangs his head, shoulders bowing forward, and squeezes his eyes shut.

“No matter what comes,” he starts, hesitating, “I want you to know that what we had… was real.”

Her tongue is thick in her mouth. Without a word, she steps forward, lifting her hand and touching his cheek. He shudders at her touch, making a face that could almost be described as a grimace, and she almost pulls away before his hand comes up and holds the back of hers, pressing her palm to his face. He turns his head, kissing her palm.

“In time, I hope you will understand,” Solas murmurs, hoarsely. His fingers curl over the palm of her hand, but he makes no move to pull her hand away from his cheek. Her gaze darts down to his lips—

“Boss!” Bull calls, and Ariala turns away, her hand falling to her side. Eyes hot, she walks away, knowing that it will hurt worse to watch him leave instead. She climbs the rough crest of the fallen stone, and sees her Inner Circle slowly assembling at the bottom, all injured and bloodied, but alive.

When she looks over her shoulder, Solas is gone.

She climbs down, careful not to fall, and when she reaches  them she is unable to bring herself to speak. Bull studies her, then the crest of the makeshift hill, and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“Okay, boss,” he says, so gently her eyes water. She can’t help but lean into him, then. “Let’s get you home.”

— ✦ —

In her quarters, Ariala finds one last gift from Solas. Placed before the herd of glass halla is a leather-bound journal, with a bookmark of a loose piece of parchment. Ariala sits down on her too-large Orlesian bed, dirtied and bloody and stinking of sweat but unwilling to take a bath, and crosses her legs in the old Dalish style.

The journal is bound shut in the leather straps of Solas’s preserved jawbone necklace; she unwinds it first, and drapes it over her head, taking comfort in its weight between her breasts, against her stomach. She takes a few moments to breathe, sniffling and wiping at her eyes with a relatively clean part of her hand, and then she opens the journal to the loose piece of paper.

Inside the journal are sketches of varying subjects—medicinal herbs and berries, annotated in Elvhen. There’s a detailed list of how to skin and prepare a ram, which makes her smile, despite the grief weighing down her chest, amplifying the emptiness inside her. She swallows, flipping to the next page.

Much of it starts the same, as wilderness survival basics. How to set up a tent. How to start a fire. How to spearfish. But as she gets further into the journal, more and more sketches are of her, or other members of the Inquisition—but mostly her. She bites her lip, wiping at her eyes again, and keeps going.

She looks at all the sketches, until she gets to a page near the end of the journal and stops.

Where he had drawn the halla, and the aravels, and the grove.

Where he had drawn Deshanna braiding Ariala’s hair.

She cannot stop her sob, then, cannot keep herself from covering her mouth with one hand as she bows over and her shoulders shake. She slides from the bed onto the floor, keening, eyes squeezed shut so hard she sees red instead of black in her eyelids. She places the journal on the bed and, with her other hand, grips the jawbone until she feels the teeth dig divots into her palm.

She sobs, biting down into the meat of her hand, even though there isn’t anyone to overhear her. She keeps her gaze fixed on the dawn and cries until her eyes are sore and her breaths hiccup, hurting her chest. She cries until it aches to breathe, until her head is light and she can’t breathe through her nose without sniffling.

She cries until the loss of him does not feel like a knife buried in her gut.

When she trusts herself again, she takes the journal back, flipping to where she’d been. She traces her grandmother’s face with a single finger, blinking rapidly, and flips the page.

On two separate pages of their own, freeing them to be torn out if she wants, are the two drawings she’d requested—one of her Mother’s mark on her back, and one of the branches that wind over her forehead and temples, down the bridge of her nose. Tucked between those pages are ten copies of each drawing, each as detailed and lovingly drawn as the last.

In each of them, he had drawn her to be beautiful.

Her eyes begin to water once again.

She shuts the journal before her tears can ruin the charcoal lines, and lifts the loose piece of paper he’d used as a bookmark. Flipping it over, she sees a single line, and recognizes Solas’s elegant handwriting at once.

_Take care of yourself, beloved._

She swallows thickly and stands, walking to her balcony to stare at the rising sun. Arms crossed around her middle, she watches the morning horizon bleed red and pink and gold around the edges, sending the color leaching into the grey, smoke-filled sky.

“I will,” she says, hoarsely. “I will, vhenan. I promise.”


	8. epilogue: var lath vir suledin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look guys!! [FANART!](https://kauriart.tumblr.com/post/178710841365/beloved-a-gift-for-cedarmoons-for) it's so beautiful, thank you kauri!!

“Oh, I do wish I could go with you,” Merrill says. “It would be lovely to see the Crossroads, wouldn’t it? _Really_ see them. It’s so sad, how they were a few months ago. Has it changed much, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Ariala says, staring at the rippling liquid surface of the eluvian. “But someone is reviving it. I intend to find out who. Do you know the protocol?”

“If you’re not back in a month, I’m to go after you,” Merrill supplies, cheerfully. “And if _I’m_ not back in a month, we have _both_ died simply terrible, awful deaths that I hope don’t _actually_ happen because dying in the Crossroads would be quite lonely, wouldn’t it—”

“And?”

“—and Cullen or Josephine is to break the mirror.”

Ariala gives her a thumbs-up. “I hope you don’t die, though,” Merrill muses. “I like you a lot, lethallan, and it would be a shame to break this eluvian. I never knew the Crossroads were what’s on the other side! I never quite got mine that far.”

“Merrill.”

“Right! Sorry. Off you go, then.” Merrill takes a step back.

“I’ll be back soon,” Ariala promises. She’s intent on taking back the Dales, the People’s rightful home, and she’s made so much progress in just a year. She won’t give that dream up for anything.

But her dreams are of the Crossroads—first gray and and broken and decayed, evidence of what the Veil had done to it, and then, slowly, life and magic creeping back into it. She dreams of a Crossroads being rebuilt, and wolves watching her from afar, and shadowy whispers from the Well that she can’t quite translate.

She takes a breath and steps inside the mirror, stumbling out into a changed world, one not concealed in mist and shadow.

The Crossroads is not what she had dreamed it would be. Though, given that her dreams are based off of thousands-year-old memories, that isn’t too much of a surprise.

But neither is the Crossroads what it had been when she had visited it with Morrigan, either.

The tree simulacra are alive, the once empty spheres of air between their curling branches now filled with orbs of multicolored light that shed sparks. The glinting pieces of light fall as light as snowflakes, dusting the stone floor in a rainbow of colors before fading into nothing.

Everything is still dull and bluish-gray, but the trees— _that_ she cannot ignore. She shoulders her bow bag and starts walking, taking in everything. She sees an eluvian that had fallen when she’d visited this place with Morrigan; now, it is upright, and the shattered glass is smooth. The surface of the mirror is cold when she presses her fingertips against it.

“Revas vir-anaris,” she whispers.

Nothing happens. She counts to twenty in her mind, but the eluvian remains inactive, its repaired surface still and dark. She watches her reflection in a sheen of shadowed glass. Not connected to the rest of the network, then. Ariala steps back and keeps walking.

As she continues, she takes the fourth prototype of Dorian’s crystal, holding it up to her mouth. “Merrill?” she whispers. “You there?”

Dorian had specifically created this prototype with the energies of the Crossroads in mind, because none of the prior ones had ever worked. Dorian had tried to explain it to her, talking about the influence of the Veil and the status of the Crossroads as a world-between-worlds, but magical theory, as ever, had mostly escaped her.

No response. She frowns and keeps going, activating—or trying to activate—every eluvian she sees.

Most of the eluvians light up at the passcode, but she doesn’t go through any of them. She walks to the very edge of where she had gone with Morrigan, where the earth—sprinkled through with dead grass and crumbling cobblestones—had dropped off into a sheer cliff.

The grass is green now, she notes. And the twisted, dead trees are blooming pink leaves.

As she approaches the edge of the area, the Anchor pulses, and she grits her teeth, grabbing her left wrist. She stumbles to a stop, breathing hard as the pain grows, and grows, sending liquid fire through her veins. She bites back a scream, squeezing her eyes shut, jaw clenched so hard her teeth ache.

The fit passes several minutes later, the Anchor flaring once and then returning to its simmering slash of magic within her hand. Breathing hard, Ariala wipes away the sweat on her brow and straightens. “Okay,” she mutters to herself. “Okay, just pick one and go.”

When she finds the next glowing eluvian, she steps through—right into a blindingly green valley. Squinting, she shields her eyes against the sun, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light. Once she can see again, she stumbles forward, leaning against a railing.

She’s on the outskirts of a broken, abandoned fortress settled in the middle of a lake that looks like it stretches on for miles. The surrounding valley is lush and green, and the air is warm despite the encroaching winter. Her brow furrows and she turns around, studying the alabaster stone, most of which has been overtaken with creeping greenery.

The eluvian settled against the wall still glows blue, the liquid surface rippling like water. She can still see the grey light of the Crossroads, the pink canopies of revived trees. Turning away, she draws her bow, crouching at the edge of the tower and turning around.

Another solid wall meets her; the area of the platform where a bridge would be has crumbled away, a few loose stones hanging over air. But it’s abandoned. She’s alone. Sighing, she slips her bow back into its bag, slinging it behind her as she straightens and goes down the walkway, turning another corner.

When she steps forward, a gust hits her full in the face, and she watches a handful of purple shapes emerge from the floor and walls, coalescing together until several roughly elf-shaped spirits are standing before her, all of them armed. She can make out tiny details in their armor—golden and shining, with fine samite cloth coverings.

Just like Abelas.

Shit, she won’t be able to take all of them at once.

“Atish'all vallem,” the tallest spirit says to her, tone gentle and amiable. “Fen’Harel elathadra.”

 _Fen’Harel elathadra._ Where has she heard that before?

Before she can reply, the spirit continues. “Nuvenas mana helanin, dirth bellasa ma.”

It stares at her with bright white eyes, clearly expectant. Ariala takes a step back, instinctively reaching for her bow. Before she can draw it out, the whispers of the Well rise up in her mind, murmuring to her as if they were standing right beside her.

 _What?_ she thinks.

 _Speak_ , the Well instructs, and says the phrase again.

“Ar-melana dirthavaren,” Ariala repeats, slowly, brow furrowing. “Revas vir-anaris.”

Revas vir-anaris. The same passcode that opens the eluvians.

The spirit smiles at her, its mouth a shadow against the purple light that forms its face. “Amae lethalas. Andaran atish’an.”

It disappears, as do the other spirits, and Ariala relaxes, slowly sitting down and cradling her aching left hand in her lap. She thinks back to the spirit’s initial greeting, trying to piece the words they had both said.

Atish’all vallem. Well, she doesn’t know that translation—and when she reaches for the Well, it remains stubbornly, frustratingly silent—but she knows _atish_ is sometimes used for a greeting, because it means peace. So. Welcome to something, or peaceful greetings, something like that.

The best she can come up with, after several moments of thinking, is a very, _very_ rough translation: Welcome, Fen’Harel something, you must stop here and speak the passcode to me.

What she’d said in reply—what the Well had given to her—is equally vexing. She knows _dirthavaren_ , “the promise,” and _revas vir-anaris_ , which is the passcode to the eluvians. Revas is “freedom” and vir is “way”; Anaris had been the name of a Forgotten One, so _revas vir-anaris_ could, hypothetically, be “freedom in the way of Anaris.”

But then there’s _belanaris_ , which meant “forever,” and _bel_ could also be a negative, so _belanaris_ could be translated as “not ending”, which would make _anaris_ “ending,” making _revas vir anaris_ “freedom in the way of ending,” which itself is difficult to understand. She’s looking at the puzzle, but she doesn’t have enough of the pieces. The picture isn’t coming together.

“This language makes no gods-damned sense,” she tells the Well.

When the Well doesn’t reply, she mutters a curse and stands back up, rounding the second corner. This one leads to a downwards-going staircase, which ends on a platform with a broken eluvian, so she climbs over a different pile of rubble. On her right are two murals, in the same art style as the paintings she’d seen in the Emerald Graves and even in Skyhold itself. Most of the murals are concealed by vines, but what she can make out is remarkably well-preserved.

One is of a green-black dragon with bright red wings; another is of spindly white elven soldiers riding on horned mounts—not halla, she notes with interest. She knows the Emerald Knights had ridden halla, but she’d always assumed that had come from the ancients as well. Were these stylized halla, then, or simply completely different beasts now extinct?

She pulls Solas’s knapsack over her shoulder, rifling through until she finds her journal. Flipping past pages, she finds a good amount of space and, taking the fancy metal “pen” with automatic ink she’d stolen from Varric, writes very carefully: _Bring scholars (_ _elf_ _!!) to murals—anceint elves?_

She waits for the ink to dry before returning her journal back into the backpack. Standing, she rounds another corner, and comes face-to-face with a golden mosaic that stretches across the entire wall. The rest of the tower had only had murals, chipped and faded from the sun, or half-covered by vines.

This is different.

There are no trace of vines, or old paint, or decay. The mosaic pieces are all green, with accents of gold and silver. Ariala backs up to the tower edge railing, studying the piece. The wolf at the top center stares down at her, and underneath it is an elf wearing a mask fashioned from a wolf’s head. The elf is surrounded by other barefaced elves, looking up at him in supplication.

Fen’Harel.

She tries to remember what Solas had talked about, a year ago when they had been walking through the abandoned sanctuary, but her memory doesn’t serve her well. All she can recall is something about a rebellion.

Just thinking about Solas makes her chest ache. Her fingers drift down to the jawbone necklace resting beside Dorian’s crystal, and she swallows. It’s been a year, but the wound is still unhealed, still tender and sore. It still hurts to think of him, even though she is beginning to forget the little details—the cadence of his voice, what his laugh had sounded like. How he had smelled by the campfire, or in the rotunda.

The crystal glows warm against her chest, and she grabs it, thankful for the distraction.

“Ariala?” Merrill asks, voice projecting clearly through the crystal. “Oh, please answer, Dorian and I worked quite hard—”

“Merrill?”

“Ariala!” Merrill says, delighted. “Oh, how wonderful! I was starting to get worried the crystal still didn’t work in the Crossroads.”

“It doesn’t,” Ariala says. “I’m out of the Crossroads. I’m… I don’t know where I am.”

“Oh? Well, that’s puzzling, isn’t it? Where do you think you are? Ferelden? Antiva?”

“It’s warm,” Ariala says. “No snow, or slush, or chill. It’s like it’s summer here.”

She can’t look away from the emerald mosaic. It feels like it’s… _pulling_ at her, eager for her attention, and she feels it as in itch in the center of her left palm. After a moment, she steps forward, eyes locked on the hooded figure standing beneath the Dread Wolf.

“Hmm,” Merrill says. “Well, didn’t Solas or Morrigan once talk about some eluvians leading to in-between places? Could this be one of those places?”

“I don’t know,” Ariala says. “I’m going to try something—”

She lifts her hand, and cries out as the mosaic tugs on the Anchor, just like the rifts before she’d closed them. The Anchor sparks, and emerald light flashes, reflecting in the Dread Wolf’s eyes. She watches in silence as the mosaic begins to burn away, leaving an empty archway and stairs that descend into blackness. A voiceless sensation fills her mind, gentle and welcoming, and she hears, very distinctly:

_Fen’Harel bids you welcome. Rest, knowing that Fen’Harel guards you and his people guard this valley. In this place, you are free. In trusting us, you will never be bound again._

Fen’Harel. This was another sanctuary, shielding the rebellious elves from the Evanuris’s wrath. Ariala steps forward, and the Anchor shines brighter, providing ample light to see down the stairs—and to see the statue of Fen’Harel at the base, reclining but alert, his tail over his back legs.

“Holy shit,” she murmurs.

“Ariala?” she hears Dorian say. “What was that? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Ariala says. “Anchor acting up again. Don’t worry, Dorian.”

“ _Don’t worry,_ she says, even though she has no mage with her to discharge the Anchor should its power grow too much—”

“Merrill,” Ariala says, ignoring Dorian’s fretting, no matter how justified it is. “Everything the Dalish have said is wrong.”

“Oh, well, I figured that, sort of? After all my experiences with the eluvian, and what _you’ve_ discovered, I’m not so terribly surprised—”

“No, I mean, they’re so wrong they’re going to shit themselves,” Ariala breathes, descending the stairs. “Okay, I have to go. Check in later.”

She touches the glowing purple crystal, severing the connection between her and her arcane advisors. When she reaches the Dread Wolf’s statue, she lifts the Anchor high, studying how the emerald light and shadows play over the stone muzzle and face. There is no hint of erosion—no moss or lichen from wet spots, or softened stone, anything. Perfectly preserved.

Around the corner, close to the statue of the Dread Wolf, is another room, leading into a branching hallway. The room is an armory, full of bows and swords and weapons she’s never seen—weapons that likely relied upon magic to work. Much of them are made of wood or metal, but, again, there is no decay here—no tarnish, no rot. Magic, maybe?

When she finds another intact eluvian, she whispers, “Revas vir’anaris.”

The eluvian hums to life, and she steps through, into a courtyard she doesn’t recognize. Dead plants litter the dirty stone walls, their brown vines shriveled between the cracks. She thinks the stone may have been golden, once, but over the years the dirt had piled up too much to tell. In the center of the courtyard is an empty square, full of choked weeds and leaves, but there are spigots embedded in the walls. It had been a fountain once, then.

Across the courtyard is another floating island, but the bridge between the two had fallen. Ariala steps close to the edge, peering down, and sees only mist. She doesn’t want to know what had happened—she doesn’t want to know how far that drop goes.

Hadn’t one of her Well dreams ended that way? The two lovers chasing each other, one of them screaming as the ground had buckled and fallen beneath their feet: _come back, come back—my heart_ —

Solas had said raising the Veil had destroyed the Elvhen. He had witnessed its consequences firsthand. Had one of them been this—dissolving the connections between the islands, severing the eluvians from each other, leaving people trapped and helpless, or giving out beneath their feet? The very idea makes her stomach turn.

But when she approaches the edge, stones materialize from thin air, forming a thin walkway. Ariala’s eyes widen at the sight, and hesitantly, she reaches out a bare foot and presses her toe to the stone. It holds. When she leans forward, it still holds under her weight.

Oh, shit. This will be how she dies. Here fell Ariala Lavellan, stupid enough to trust ancient magic she didn’t understand.

When she steps forward, heart hammering hard enough in her throat to make her nauseous, the stone holds, and the walkway extends a few feet. She walks forward, then back, watching the extra stones dissolve exactly as the mosaic had in the sanctuary.

Huh. Maybe this bridge hadn’t given out, then.

She adjusts Solas’s backpack and keeps walking, pushing down her uneasiness. The dead can’t come first, this time—there’s still so much to learn.

— ✦ —

It takes her three days of exploring the eluvian network before she realizes she’s on the trail of whoever is responsible for its gradual rebuilding—and she realizes that the person is aware of her presence. She returns to an abandoned Ferelden throne room for the second time, only to realize that the broken eluvian in the corner—not the one she’d used, behind the empty throne—has been repaired, and is glowing expectantly.   

Every eluvian she finds after that is also open, and doesn’t need to be activated by the passcode.

She doesn’t know what that means, but she marks it down in her journal anyway. She’s slowly but surely making a map of the eluvians, trying to sketch out in stick figures the places she’s visited—the sanctuary, the courtyard, various floating isles of rock, other empty, abandoned places—and drawing connections between the eluvians, each of them labeled with their destination.

The fourth night, the Anchor’s agony wakes her up. Her screams echo in the half-rotted little room she’s camped in, spilling through the slitted rectangle windows and into the open air of the Crossroads, and the pain doesn’t end for what must be hours. When it finally ends, Ariala sags onto her back, looking outside for any indication that time has passed—but the world is still as bright and colorful as it had been when it had started.

She doesn’t have the energy to get out of her bedroll. Instead, she opens her journal and flips pages to the snippets she has written down: butchered phonetic spellings of Elvhen, and the impressions certain locations she’s discovered have given her.

On a fresh page, she starts a list, titling it _Things I Know About Fen’Harel:_

  * _Solas knew him (fought with him? probably)_


  * _Rebelled against gods (evenuris) b/c hated slavery_


  * _Denied being god, says evenuris aren’t gods (same as Solas)_


  * _Knows a lot about spirits and the Fade (same as Solas — taught Solas?)_



Too many pieces, but she’s not seeing the picture. She’s seized with the brief impulse to throw her journal across the room, but instead stuffs it back into Solas’s bag and pulls out some more dried jerky. She chews on it angrily, staring up at the open sky—the ceiling of this place had caved in long ago—until she calms down. Once her frustration ebbs, she touches Solas’s necklace, tracing the grooves of the jawbone in old, familiar patterns. When she blinks, a single tear escapes her eye, running down her temple into her bun.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” she whispers. “Why didn’t you trust me?”

The world is still and silent. There isn’t even a breeze to let her know that _something_ has heard. Ariala curls into a fetal position, gripping the jawbone tight enough that the teeth dig into her fingers, and sleeps.

Her dreams are, blessedly, dark and empty—empty of everything except silent blue eyes that watch her across an impossible distance.  

— ✦ —

The fifth day, she finds another sanctuary, leading up from an empty courtyard less dilapidated than the first. She labels them _Sancuary 2_ and _Cortyard 2_ respectively. It’s more well-preserved than the first, the room swallowed by a set of massive stairs, also built out of the gold-toned stone. The ceiling is caved in, providing plenty of sunlight, so she shoulders her bow bag and Solas’s backpack and trudges up the stairs.

Two massive murals and another statue of Fen’Harel greet her.

Her gaze fixes on the mural on her left, and she stills.

After a moment, her feet move without her realizing. She rushes forward, stumbling to a stop, clambering over piles of rubble to stare at the mosaic painted _exactly_ like Solas’s in Skyhold’s rotunda. The art is more fluid, less stylized, but she recognizes it.

A man wearing a wolf’s head as a hood, standing before huddling elves, pale hand outstretched. Fen’Harel, removing vallaslin from slaves. She reaches up with a trembling hand, tracing the whorls of blue with the tips of her fingers. Slowly, she follows the curving lines of blue to Fen’Harel’s outstretched palm, then up to the curve of his jaw.

_Stop. You are perfect exactly as you are._

The last piece slides into place, and she gasps, pressing her hand against her mouth. She nearly stumbles off the rubble pile she’s standing on, but steadies herself, gazing up at the painted figure of Fen’Harel in absolute, deafening silence.

Fen’Harel.

Solas.

 _Arasha_ , she thinks, tears stinging her eyes. She inhales harshly, the only sound echoing in the cavernous room, and approaches the mural again. In silence, she climbs the rubble pile, uncaring of how her feet knock loose stones to skitter across the gold-tiled floor. She lifts her hand again, hovering her fingers over the three silver triangles that make up Fen’Harel’s eyes.

Fen’Harel is Solas. Solas is Fen’Harel. They are one in the same.

Gods, she’d been so _stupid_ , not seeing it earlier.

 _This_ is what he had feared. He had feared her learning not that he was of the ancient Elvhen, but that he was Fen’Harel. The figure her people have reviled for the entirety of their history, since the fall of the People. Had he feared she would hate him? Had he feared she would curse him as a thousand other Dalish have cursed his name, as a thousand Elvhen—the Evanuris themselves—no doubt did?

Had he been right to think that?

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what to feel, to think. Her hand is still against her mouth, and she is too shocked to think of anything, to even begin to process this new, unexpected, _unwelcome_ revelation.

She loves the Dread Wolf. _She loves the Dread Wolf._

But—

But he wasn’t so Dread, was he? He had freed the slaves. He had fought against the tyranny of the Evanuris. He had… he had locked away the gods, if those legends were true. She isn’t so certain. If her people had gotten one thing right, he had sealed the gods away, had taken away the People’s magic, and in so doing destroyed the People.

Solas had said raising the Veil destroyed the Elvhen. He said he had witnessed the consequences. The Veil separates Fade from reality, removes magic from the world—and if the Veil had destroyed the People, and Fen’Harel had used the Veil to seal the gods away—

 _Tarasyl’an tel’as_ , the place where the sky was held back—the place where the Veil was raised—

Fen’Harel had destroyed the People. _Solas_ had destroyed the People. He was the reason Elvhenan no longer existed, that it remained only because of ruins and because of the Dalish, wrong as they have been about so many things.

Ariala feels sick. She steps off the rubble again, swallowing hard. A bird chirps, but she doesn’t pay attention, too focused on the mural before her. She sighs, lowering her hand, blinking hard, uncaring of the tears on her cheeks.

 _I was a coward,_ he had said at Wycome, so long ago. _I feared your reaction._

“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh, _arasha_.”

She doesn’t… she doesn’t know what to think. She doesn’t know whether she would’ve believed him, if he had told her. More likely she would’ve thought he was mad. Or—or if she did believe him, she would’ve feared him, possibly even hated him.

She doesn’t know. Can’t possibly know. And that worries her. She would like to think…

Behind her, she hears a soft, near-silent gasp. She whirls around at once, reaching for her bow, but she stills at once when she sees what—who is waiting for her.

Solas stands at the staircase landing, gripping his walking staff with one white-knuckled hand. He is dressed much the same as she remembers—long, ragged robes, with a wolf fur stole draped across his shoulder and torso. He’s wearing his favorite scarf, long and deep green, striped through with bronze and silver. She had stolen it from him, once.

How had she not heard his footsteps?

_The Dread Wolf comes in humble guises, a wanderer who knows much of the People and their spirits._

Ariala swallows. Solas’s gaze flicks from her to the mural behind her, and a tremble runs through his arm. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and oh, she knows that tic, only surfacing when he is nervous or anxious. He looks back at her, inhaling slowly, and swallows hard. Ariala holds his gaze and, after a long moment of silence, lifts the strap of her bow bag over her head.

The _thud_ of her bow hitting the tiles at her feet is a subtle, dull sound, but Solas still flinches. His exhale shakes, but he doesn’t look away from her. Doesn’t say a word. Ariala’s heart races, pounding so hard she feels light-headed.

He’s here. He’s truly here.

It has been a year, and she—she has _missed_ him.

Despite everything she has just learned, she has missed him.

It is not the Dread Wolf who stands before her, but Solas, quiet and nervous and terrified. He hides it well, but she knows him as well as she knows her own heart. He is tense, waiting for her to speak. Waiting for her to lash out at him? Fulfill his quiet, fearful expectations?

She won’t.

She _won’t_.

She will process, later, when she is alone with her own thoughts, but right now—right now, he is all that matters.

“Solas,” she says. Though she says it quietly, almost a whisper, it seems to echo in the dead space between them.

Solas does not move. His gaze is locked on her face, but his breaths are short and sharp, nearly hyperventilating. His shock is written plainly on his face—his eyes are wide, mouth slack. She waits, watching him swallow hard, fingers flexing around the wood. His gaze travels down to her chest, locking on the jawbone necklace resting over her sternum, and his expression cracks in a look of grief so potent she can almost feel it herself.

“And now you know,” he says, those four words betraying a deep pain that reminds her of when he had grieved Wisdom. _It hurts. It always does_. She steps forward again, noting his flinch as she draws ever closer. Another step, and Solas bows his head, breathing a soft, mirthless laugh.

“What is the old Dalish curse?” he asks. “‘May the Dread Wolf take you?’”

Ariala’s heart feels tight in her chest, but she doesn’t know why. She’s not upset. She’s not angry. She’s not empty, either—a nameless emotion is welling up in her, like a pot left under a tap, allowed to swell and spill over the rim. She shakes her head, stopping in front of him, and says, “Solas. Look at me.”

His head does not move, but he lifts his eyes to her face, and she touches his cheek. His breath stutters on the exhale, and his eyes slip shut, his head turning into her touch. Her heart breaks at the sight. “Vhenan,” she says. “Arasha. Ma sal’shiral.”

With a small, hesitant smile, she whispers, “Beloved.”

Solas shakes his head, weakly, shut eyes squeezing tight. “I am not worth those names,” he says, voice breaking. “I deserve none of your love, _none_ of it, not after what I withheld from you—”

She tugs him down and rocks up onto the balls of her feet, pressing her forehead against his. Solas shudders. The staff clatters to the floor as that simple touch drives him to his knees. His hands clutch at her hips, fisting in her loose travelling clothes. He presses his face into the soft spot between her breasts, below her sternum. She wraps her arms around him, pushing back his hood, leaving him kneeling and penitent before her.

“Ir abelas,” he rasps. “Ir abelas, vhenan—”

“Tel’abelas,” Ariala says. “Tel’abelas, arasha.”

He lifts his face toward her, eyes wide and uncertain, and every one of the fissures in her heart—slowly mending over the year she has lived without him—crack and split open anew. The emptiness inside her is pushed back by heartache, and tears fall down her cheeks.  

“Ariala—” he starts, but when she wraps a gloved hand around the nape of his neck and bends down, slanting her mouth over his, he kisses her back with starving eagerness. He twists, falling back, and she goes with him, straddling his hips, her hands roaming every inch of his body. His arm snakes around her waist, palm pressing flat between her shoulder blades, fingers spreading wide to feel as much of her as possible.

He shivers when she cups his cheek, tilting his head back to deepen the kiss, and she breaks away with a gasp, resting her forehead against his. Solas adjusts into a sitting position, and she wraps herself around him, arms draped over his shoulders, her heels crossed and pressed against the small of his back. Solas clutches at her equally desperately, pulling her close to press fervent, open-mouthed kisses over her throat.

Slowly, he stops, and Ariala strokes the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, gazing up at the open blue sky. She feels Solas’s thumbs stroke her waist, hears him murmur against her throat, “You are eating? You are caring for yourself?”

“Yes,” Ariala says, looking down at him. Solas swallows, lifting a shaking hand toward her face, hesitantly. She lets him touch her cheek, lets him pull her down to press his forehead against hers. A shudder runs through his body, his other hand tightening on her hip.

“You do not hate me,” he murmurs, open wonder in his voice. The cracks in her heart deepen, and she presses her forehead harder against his, covering the backs of his hands with her own, keeping him pressed against her.

“No,” she breathes. “No, Solas, I could never hate you. I promised I’d listen.”

Solas’s laugh cracks out of him, sharp and short and pained. She does not flinch away when his hands cup her face between them, and the sound that leaves him is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He rests his forehead against hers, his hands shaking.

“You did,” he says, hoarsely. “You did. _Ir abelas_.”

“No more lies,” she says. “I want to know everything.”

“Of course,” he says, then huffs a laugh, offering her a weak smile. “I suspected you would have questions. Where do you wish to start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow.
> 
> What a ride.
> 
> I've never actually completed a project of this magnitude before, much less something of this size in a little over a year, so this is both an amazing, special, and bittersweet note to write.
> 
> First, my thanks must go to playwithdinos, my lovely and patient beta, who I promised a oneshot and ended up getting 130k+ of angst. Without her this fic would be 20% worse and would have 50% more unfinished sentences.
> 
> Second, I want to thank all of you who have read, or left kudos, or reviewed. Without all of you, this fic would never have gotten past chapter 3, let alone finished. Special thanks to everyone who left a review; your tears gave me the strength to keep writing.
> 
> Thank you for going on this journey with Ariala, and with me. I hope it was worth every word for you; I know it was for me.
> 
> ❤
> 
> ps i can’t believe i finished this before playwithdinos finished black coral. bless. take care of yourselves y’all ( ˘ ³˘)♥


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